


Little Bird

by random_shit



Series: What It Takes To Try Again [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Disorders, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Trauma, Trigger Warnings, mentions of DID, mentions of anorexia, pls be careful my dudes, this is a rewrite so bear with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-03-24 13:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13811880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_shit/pseuds/random_shit
Summary: Gilbert Beilschmidt is a psychiatrist, stressed and tired and struggling to help his anorexic best friend. Matthew Williams is a traumatized, schizophrenic man who's checked into the psychiatric facility his older brother Alfred works at. Matthew also happens to be Gilbert's newest client.Updates Mondays.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter include:  
> -Anorexia  
> -Mentions of abuse of laxatives  
> -Mentions and non-graphic descriptions of vomit  
> -Brief mentions of depression  
> -Brief mentions of schizophrenia  
> -Mild language
> 
> Be careful!

Mental illness was a tricky thing. Any mental disorder was complex, with a hundred possible symptoms and a thousand possible causes, and the web of a mentally ill person’s psyche only became more tangled if there was more than one disorder present. Not to mention the fact that one disorder might be presenting itself as something entirely different, which could lead to a variety of other things like misdiagnosis or incorrect treatments that only made the disorder worse. Mental illnesses were finicky and dangerous and one wrong word said in the wrong way at the wrong time to the wrong person in the wrong situation could have fatal consequences. And who knew about the ins and outs and twists and turns and knotted-up fuckeries of mental illnesses better than a psychiatrist?  
Well, a mentally ill person would probably know better, Gilbert supposed, and a psychologist who had been or still was mentally ill would probably know best, but that wasn’t the point.  
The point was that mental illness was difficult to treat at the best of times, even for trained professionals, and even then, some were harder than others for some people to treat. It depended on the psychiatrist and the client and the environment and a hundred other variable factors, some of which were completely beyond anyone’s control.   
Right then was a perfect example.   
Gilbert Beilschmidt, Francis Bonnefoy, and Antonio Carriedo had been inseparable since their freshman year of high school. They had kept in touch all throughout college, and though they had emerged as different people, they had remained firm friends. Francis had gotten a degree in fashion design, and his job allowed him to work from home almost exclusively, which later became slightly problematic. Gilbert and Antonio had both gotten psychology degrees, and then had both been hired at the same hospital. They both had disorders they felt most comfortable treating, as most psychologists did. For Gilbert, it was schizophrenia. For Antonio, it was depression. Neither of them were all that confident in their ability to successfully and consistently treat eating disorders, and that was where the problem was, because this meant that neither of them were one hundred percent sure how to go about helping Francis without risking making it worse by accident.  
It was nights like this that always threw their relative uselessness into stark clarity.   
Gilbert had gotten a phone call at 2:48 AM on a Monday morning. The buzzing of the phone had woken him, but his annoyance at being forced awake at an ungodly time of the morning had evaporated when he had seen that it was Francis calling.  
Gilbert hadn’t even had to hear Francis speak to know something was wrong. It had been written all over Francis’ shaky, broken breathing and the soft noises Gilbert knew were sobs. The way Francis’ voice had broken on Gilbert’s name only confirmed his suspicions.  
“I’ll be right there,” Gilbert had said before Francis had gotten another word out, already climbing out of bed and searching for a t-shirt to throw on.   
It had taken Gilbert fifteen minutes to get to Francis’ apartment. In the grand scheme of things, Gilbert knew, fifteen minutes wasn’t that long, but when one of your best friends was relapsing into the hellish depths of an illness that had been actively trying to destroy him for most of his life, fifteen minutes felt like a hundred years. Most of the drive was spent cursing stop signs and traffic lights and wishing he lived closer to Francis.   
Arriving at Francis’ apartment didn’t ease Gilbert’s anxiety any. If anything, it only made it worse. Knowing that Francis wouldn’t open the door, Gilbert decided to forego knocking and instead bent down to retrieve the spare key from beneath the doormat. Fearful adrenaline pulsed through Gilbert’s veins as he entered the apartment, making him feel a little sick. It was dark, except for the faint light seeping from beneath the closed bathroom door. Gilbert exhaled slowly, trying and failing to relieve some of the tension that sat so heavily in his chest and between his shoulder blades. He made his way across the apartment and knocked lightly on the bathroom door. “Franny? Are you in there?”  
There was a shuffling noise and the toilet flushed, and then: “Yeah.”  
“I’m coming in.”  
When there was no further movement or response, Gilbert opened the door. Francis was curled on the floor, his cheek resting on the rim of the toilet, a bottle of laxatives in one hand and his cell phone in the other. Gilbert sighed quietly through his nose. It had been almost a month since Gilbert or Antonio had walked in on a scene like this, and Gilbert had not missed it. He was sure Antonio hadn’t, either.   
“Hey, Franny,” Gilbert said, crouching down in front of Francis. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”  
Francis nodded, closing his eyes tiredly. This close, Gilbert could smell the vomit that Francis had presumably flushed moments before, and he could see a thin line of bile dripping slowly down Francis’ chin. Gilbert sighed again and stood, resisting the urge to cringe at the thin, brittle feel of Francis’ hair when Gilbert leaned down for a moment to pat Francis on the head. It had been his hair, Gilbert remembered, that had tipped him and Antonio off about Francis’ anorexia in the first place. Francis adored his hair, but no amount of hair care products could protect it from the side effects of malnourishment.   
Gilbert pulled a washcloth from the cupboard above the counter and got it damp, then handed it to Francis in exchange for the laxatives, which Francis had presumably used before he had vomited. Gilbert felt a little sick. He sighed to himself and put them away in the cupboard he had pulled the washcloth from. In the beginning, he had emptied the bottles he’d found into the toilet, but that had only lead to more secrecy. Francis had taken to buying multiple bottles and stashing them in various places around his apartment. Eventually, Gilbert had reluctantly agreed to leave the laxatives alone as long as Francis allowed Gilbert and Antonio to get rid of all the spare bottles. In the end, they had found twenty-three hidden bottles, in addition to the one on display on the bathroom counter.  
Francis used the ledge of the counter and Gilbert’s offered hand to haul himself off the bathroom floor. For a moment, Francis swayed unsteadily on his feet, and Gilbert caught at his shoulder to keep him from falling. Gilbert helped Francis out into the living room, then sat him down on the couch. Francis brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, his cheek resting against one knee. Purges always seemed to tire Francis out. It made sense, Gilbert supposed. It took a lot of energy for a body to force every nutritious thing out of itself, and it must have been twice as exhausting for someone like Francis, who only ever kept enough food and water down to keep himself alive.  
He left Francis for a moment to go get a glass of water from the kitchen. Francis hadn’t moved when Gilbert came back. It seemed to take a monumental amount of effort for Francis to lift his head and then his arm to take the glass. Gilbert would have offered Francis something more substantial, but he never would have accepted it, and he needed some sort of fluid in his body. He was too dehydrated for Gilbert to risk starting an argument about the “unnecessary calories” in orange juice.  
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Francis sipped slowly at the water. Gilbert snuck glances over at Francis and tried in vain to pretend he wasn’t worried.  
“I’m going to call Toni,” Gilbert said eventually.   
Francis nodded. Gilbert called Antonio. He felt a bit bad about it, because it was still only 3:18, but Antonio needed to know. It took Antonio a few minutes to answer the phone. This was no surprise; Gilbert was sure he was still sleeping. He was correct. Antonio’s voice was thick with drowsiness and concern when he picked up.  
“Gil? Is everything okay? It’s, like, three in the morning.”  
“I know, Toni. I’m sorry for waking you up,” Francis shrunk in on himself guiltily, and Gilbert shot him a hopefully-reassuring look, “but it’s Francis.”  
“I’ll be there in ten,” Antonio replied, suddenly sounding much more awake, and hung up.   
Gilbert dropped the phone onto the couch cushion beside him and exhaled slowly, sleep beginning to tug at his eyelids as the adrenaline that came with concern for Francis began to subside ever so slowly. Francis was staring guiltily at the floor, and Gilbert knew it was because he felt bad for dragging Gilbert and Antonio out of bed at an unholy hour of the morning. Gilbert didn’t mind, and he was sure Antonio didn’t either, but he was also sure there was very little he could do to assuage Francis’ misplaced quilt. Something one of Gilbert’s very first psychology professors had said came back to him: anorexia is a very secretive illness. Gilbert wondered if Francis was berating himself for reaching out for help in the first place, and he hoped this wouldn’t make Francis fall back into the habit of keeping silent when things got bad. For a moment Gilbert considered asking, but decided against it. Instead, he opted for slinging his arm around Francis’ shoulder and pulling his friend closer, into a short of half-formed side hug.  
They sat in silence until Antonio got there just under ten minutes later. Antonio lived closer than Gilbert to Francis, which was why Francis usually called Antonio first on nights like these – so that Francis would have less time to rethink his decision. Gilbert wondered why Francis had called him, instead, tonight, but again kept himself from asking. Questions would come later, when everyone was less tired and less emotionally strung out. Antonio rushed immediately to Francis, squishing himself between the arm of the couch and Francis’ body as he hugged Francis tightly.   
“I’m glad you called Gil,” Antonio murmured, then said something else that Gilbert couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it made Francis smile a little, so Gilbert was glad for it.  
The three of them lapsed back into silence for a while, Francis squashed protectively between his two best friends. It was reminiscent of when they were younger, when they had all gathered at Antonio’s house for a night or two to make sure they’d all have the will to live through another week of high school and to get Francis out of the house for a precious few hours. It was a bittersweet set of memories, but at least Gilbert knew that he could help Francis to some extent.  
I can’t help enough, clearly. The thought was bitter. From the distant, sad expression on Antonio’s face, he was thinking much the same thing. Antonio glanced up, his gaze meeting Gilbert’s, and they came to a mutual understanding. Francis needed help – he would end up in the hospital, or worse, before too much longer if he kept up the way he was – and Gilbert and Antonio weren’t the best-equipped people to help him properly, but they knew people who were. The only issue now was convincing Francis to agree to help from a stranger. That would be the tricky part.   
It took almost twenty minutes of gentle cajoling and convincing, mostly from ever-careful-with-his-words Antonio, but eventually Francis agreed, albeit reluctantly. They split ways around five, to give Francis time to prepare himself and to give Gilbert and Antonio time to get ready for work. Unfortunately, having to admit one of your best friends into a psychiatric facility didn’t constitute an “acceptable cause” to take a day off work – especially since they were admitting Francis into the hospital they worked at.  
By six o’clock, Francis was being led into Hetalia Psychiatric Hospital with Gilbert at one shoulder and Antonio at the other. Francis looked a little green with nerves, but Gilbert didn’t know if there was any way to help him with that. The first day or two was always the worst, at least according to the overwhelming consensus of Gilbert’s clients, both past and present.  
Francis sat in one of the obnoxiously bright plastic chairs, tapping his fingers against his legs anxiously. Antonio went up to talk to Katyusha, the Ukrainian receptionist on duty at the time, and Gilbert went to find Arthur Kirkland. Arthur couldn’t cook for shit – although his baked goods were pretty damn awesome – but Gilbert had to admit that Arthur knew his shit, especially when it came to treating eating disorders. It was entirely possible that Arthur was the only person in the hospital that Gilbert trusted with Francis’ mental well-being.  
Gilbert knocked firmly on the sturdy wood door, identical to every other door in the building, with the exception of the name on the nameplate and the number, that led to Arthur’s office. Arthur opened the door, looking irritated, and Gilbert remembered sheepishly that Arthur’s temper was always worst in the morning.   
“What the bloody hell do you want, Beilschmidt?” Arthur grouched.  
“There’s a good friend of mine in the waiting room, and you’re going to be his therapist,” Gilbert said bluntly, knowing better than to beat around the bush.  
Arthur stared, at Gilbert for a few seconds, looking a little dumbfounded, then pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Fine. Fine. Give me a second.”  
Gilbert waited half-impatiently as Arthur grabbed his coffee off his desk and strode out into the hallway. Hoping that he was making the right choice, Gilbert trailed Arthur back to the waiting room. Antonio was sitting beside Francis, an arm slung over his shoulders, talking to him in a low voice. Both looked up when Gilbert and Arthur approached. Antonio’s face brightened, but Francis seemed to draw in on himself. Doubt snuck into the corners of Gilbert’s mind: is this really what’s best for him?  
Gilbert shoved the thought away and summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Franny, this is Arthur Kirkland. He’ll be your therapist.”  
Francis’ hands twitched angrily at the word ‘therapist.’ Gilbert knew why. Francis had spent years convinced that it was normal to starve yourself, that it was normal to be so obsessed with weight loss and diets and restricting your calorie intake. He didn’t think he needed a therapist, even now, when he knew that none of it was normal. That, and Francis had tried so hard for so long to beat this on his own, with minimal help from Gilbert and Antonio, that being here felt like giving up to Francis, Gilbert knew.   
Antonio looked like he was about to say something – quite possibly about Francis’ rather obvious distress, but then Feliciano Vargas, one of the hospital’s nurses, rushed into the room and pulled Antonio to the side. They murmured to each other in low, frantic voices for a moment before Feliciano ran off again and Antonio rejoined them, looking a bit pale.  
“I have to go, Franny,” Antonio said, his expression as guilt-ridden and shaky as his voice, “but I promise I’ll come visit you in a little bit.”  
Antonio rushed off again before Francis or Gilbert could respond. Francis turned to Gilbert with an expression that begged him not to leave Francis alone with Arthur quite yet. Gilbert caved.  
“Arthur, how about you go talk to Katyusha and finalize the paperwork while I help Francis get settled?” Gilbert asked pointedly. Arthur looked like he was about to argue, but in the end he just rolled his eyes and walked over to the front desk.  
Gilbert led Francis down several hallways until he found a partially-unoccupied room. The rooms in the hospital were doubles, which meant that everyone had a roommate; this room’s second occupant, Lovino Vargas, Feliciano’s older brother, wasn’t there at the moment. Even so, Francis eyed the unmade bed worriedly.  
“Is it too late to change my mind?” Francis hedged, nervous and unsure.  
“Yeah,” Gilbert responded, even though technically, it wasn’t too late until the paperwork had been finished. Francis sighed.  
“It was worth a shot,” he muttered, flopping down onto the bed.  
“I know you don’t want to be here, Franny, but it really will help,” Gilbert insisted gently. “Arthur is a good man, and an awesome psychologist. Just don’t eat his food. But seriously, Franny, Toni and I won’t let anything bad happen to you. You’ll be okay, Francis. I promise.”  
Francis nodded, the line of his shoulders relaxing a little. Even through his sweatshirt, Gilbert could see the sharp jut of Francis’ shoulder blades. Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek worriedly and checked his watch to distract himself. 6:27. Technically, he didn’t have to work until eight, but he hadn’t finished all his paperwork from the previous night, and it would take at least an hour to finish, plus an extra twenty or thirty minutes of procrastination time. As such, he had to be in his office by 6:30 if he wanted to get his paperwork done.  
“I have to go,” Gilbert said reluctantly. “I’ll visit as often as I can, and if you need me, I’m in office 290, and Toni is in 142.”  
Francis nodded, smiling slightly up at Gilbert. He still looked nervous, but not quite as much as he had a few minutes ago. “Go do your thing. Help lots of people, mon ami.”   
Gilbert grinned back. “I’ll sure as fuck try.”  
Even though he knew it was necessary, Gilbert couldn’t help but feel a little guilty as he walked away from Francis’ room. He hated to leave Francis alone, but he also knew Francis would at least be in good hands.  
He was so hung up on the Francis situation that he didn’t notice the file sitting on his desk until he collapsed into the office chair. Curiosity thoroughly piqued, Gilbert sat up straighter and flipped open the file. There was a psych evaluation sitting on top of three or four other sheets of paper. The name at the top was Matthew Williams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shh it's still monday here i'm not late yet

At least, at the _very_ least, they had let Matthew transfer early in the morning. He’d found that afternoons and evenings were the worst times of the day, after nighttime, because there were so many shadows. Matthew had never done well with the dark; the thought that something malignant was prowling just out of sight – out of reach – hadn’t exactly been comforting when Mathew had been a five-year-old with nothing but a little canary plushy and the pounding rain against the window of his hundredth foster home to comfort him. Darkness had never been Matthew’s friend, and by the time he was twenty, Matthew had firmly decided it was his enemy. He’d spent years being told that demons lurked in the dark, and as it turned out, that wasn’t entirely untrue. Matthew had found that demons thrived just as well in the light as in the dark; they were just stronger and more vicious in the dark.

In the light, demons could at least be seen. Pale skin, bright eyes, pale hair, glinting knives, blood running down Matthew’s arms – it was all visible. Matthew could see what would happen next and anticipate the pain. But in the dark, he never knew what was coming. Everything hurt worse in the dark. In the dark, Matthew could only hear the heinously familiar sounds. A demon’s laugh; Matthew’s screaming; the slow drip of blood – not the demon’s, never the demons – the slow scrape of metal against plaster as a blade was dragged along a wall. The afternoon shadows always brought back whispers of those sounds, and those whispers were always bound to turn to screams by nightfall.

And, because clearly Matthew was not allowed a moment’s respite from the hell he lived in, it was impossible to sleep with screaming hellions bouncing around in his head. When he did manage to block out enough of the noise to sleep, there were always nightmares to deal with. Sometimes, the screams transferred to Matthew’s unconscious and became dreams themselves. Sometimes, the nightmares were just memories that haunted him while he was asleep as well as when he was awake. Sometimes, Matthew’s nightmares were just Cheshire-cat grins against a black background, the teeth gleaming metallically and dripping with blood that Matthew was sure was his own. Sometimes, Matthew’s nightmares continued even after he woke up, and that grin would float above him for hours at a time when it got really bad, and Matthew would scream himself hoarse until someone finally noticed he was distressed and sent someone to calm him down. Alfred, Matthew’s adopted brother, called it schizophrenia and PTSD and anxiety. Matthew just called it hell.

But he supposed it made sense. Matthew knew, logically, that he was traumatized. He knew, logically, that he had been abused. He knew he’d been held captive by his ex-boyfriend. Matthew knew he’d spent the last two years chained to the radiator in said ex’s basement – he had the burn scars on his wrists and hands to prove it – being beaten and cut and enduring a hellish rainbow of other, similar torture methods. Matthew knew that Alfred had gotten worried and called the police, who found Matthew nearly dead, malnourished, dehydrated, and sick, and promptly arrested his ex. Matthew knew he’d spent a month and a half recovering physically in a hospital before Alfred guiltily admitted that he was going to have Matthew transferred to the psychiatric facility Alfred worked at. Matthew was well aware of all of this, but it didn’t make it any easier for him to hear or deal with.

That was probably why he was being institutionalized. Matthew knew he’d need help getting past what had happened to him – any metal, even the glint of a wheelchair or a car or a pen, had the potential to send him into a tailspin – and Matthew was sure the best place to get that sort of help was a psychiatric hospital. For the most part, Matthew was okay with it. This gave him time to sort out what would happen once he was back out in the real world, and it would give Alfred a chance to re-center himself; Alfred had taken Matthew’s disappearance and the state he’d been found in almost as hard as Matthew himself. The only qualm Matthew had about this arrangement was that Alfred couldn’t be his therapist due to conflict of interest. What this meant was that Matthew would have to learn to trust a complete stranger enough to tell them all the awful details about what he’d been through. Alfred already knew most of it, so it would have been far easier on Matthew if Alfred had been the one to oversee Matthew’s therapy. Unfortunately, that was illegal, so Matthew would have to figure out how to verbally explain what had gone on in that tiny basement without the help of doctors or police officers.

As such, Matthew was stressed and anxious enough as it was; he was glad he was able to go from the normal hospital to the psychiatric one in the morning. He didn’t think he could have handled trying to keep shadows from grabbing him while he tried to move from one pseudo-prison to another.

Matthew allowed Alfred to lead him into Hetalia Psychiatric, albeit reluctantly. Chewing anxiously on his lower lip, Matthew resisted the urge to hide in a corner and distracted himself by taking inventory of the room around him while Alfred worked on getting Matthew checked in. The flooring was that strange, tacky multicoloured tiling he associated with pediatricians’ offices, but he could see that it gave way to navy blue carpet down the hallways that branched off from the lobby. The walls were a surprisingly gentle shade of baby blue, which was a pleasant surprise. Matthew had been expecting the same harsh white that had coated every surface of the hospital he’d just come from, and he had to admit that he liked this colour scheme far better. It was much gentler on his poor, still-oversensitive-because-he’d-been-kept-in-almost-complete-darkness-for-so-long eyes. There were lots of windows, too – more than Matthew had imagined there would be. Admittedly, Matthew had imagined psychiatric hospitals to me a whole lot more like prisons. More security. And bars on the windows, maybe.

“Matthew?”

Alfred’s voice startled Matthew enough that he jumped. Not that it took much, anymore. Judging by the concerned expression of Alfred’s face, he’d been trying to get Matthew’s attention for a few minutes at least.

“Are you okay?” Alfred murmured. Matthew nodded guiltily. He’d worried Alfred enough already; he didn’t need to make it worse by spacing out for no reason.

It was pretty obvious that Alfred didn’t believe Matthew, but at least Alfred had the courtesy not to say anything. He led Matthew down hallways and around corners and up a few stairs. _Maybe this is why they don’t have bars on the windows or any visible security,_ Matthew thought. _Everyone who tries to escape gets lost before they take ten steps._

Eventually they came to a stop at a smooth wooden door numbered _290_ on the plaque. There was also a nameplate tacked to the door that read _G. Beilschmidt._ Matthew guessed that was who was going to be his therapist.

Alfred knocked sharply on the door and Matthew took an anxious step back. He wished he had something to hold onto to keep him grounded as waves of anxiety threatened to wash him away, but a blond nurse Matthew thought was Scandinavian had taken his back while Alfred was checking Matthew in and he had brought nothing else with him. Instead, Matthew just gripped his arms, grateful for the long-sleeved hoodie that hid the worst of the scarring on his arms and kept him from feeling the bite of his fingernails when he dug them into his wrists.

The door opened, and Matthew’s gaze immediately dropped to the floor. He cursed the years he’d spent being conditioned to act like that, and forced himself to drag his eyes back upward. Black shoes, jeans, a grey t-shirt beneath a black biker jacket, and then a face. The man was paler than Matthew’s, which was saying a lot, and his hair was blonder than Matthew’s, to the point of being nearly perfect white, which was really saying a lot. Matthew forced himself to look the man in the eyes and froze.

His eyes were bright red.

The walls were closing in on Matthew. His lungs were collapsing in his chest. Had the shadows in the corners been that dark this entire time? Matthew didn’t think so. They certainly hadn’t been that long. They certainly hadn’t had arms or claws or – oh, God, they had _teeth._ Matthew tore his eyes away and found himself trapped in the therapist’s crimson eyes like a bug in amber. His eyes had changed; the colour had begun to thicken and drip down the man’s cheeks, just as hisses and wails and screams started to sound in Matthew’s ears like sirens. There was blood in the therapist’s irises, Matthew realized, and with a jolt of the most primal, instinctual fear he had ever felt, he realized the blood was his own.

Matthew stumbled away until his back hit a wall, his hands creeping up under the sleeves of his hoodie to _scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch_ at his arms in a desperate attempt to keep himself grounded. A strangled, terrified noise came from somewhere, but Matthew could no longer tell if it came from inside his head or out. Laughter and taunts hissed in the same tone as radio static joined the cacophony in Matthew’s ears. The shadows had slithered across the floor and were grabbing at Matthew’s ankles with their long, taloned fingers, their grating cackling like a heavy object being dragged across a cement floor covered in glass. There was another jagged, broken shriek, and this time Matthew was somewhat certain the sound came from his mouth.

One of the shadows stretched up along the wall, toward the ceiling, rather than skittering across the floor to join the others that were trying to vehemently to drag Matthew to the floor, into their waiting black-hole maws. The vertical shadow arched languidly, like a cat, and then two almost acidly bright green eyes blinked open. They immediately focused in on Matthew. The shadow gave itself legs and stepped forward. It gave itself hands, then fingers. Its Cheshire-cat smile stretched evilly across its face, and the teeth it revealed glinted and dripped with dark blood that was thicker and more viscous than it should have been. And the demon had its claws curled around a knife, the blade sparking in the florescent lights.

Matthew screamed.

Somewhere, someone called his name. It was hard to hear; Matthew’s cry had multiplied, and it was bouncing off the walls now, never fading, adding yet another layer to the chaotic soundtrack of misery that played on and on and on and on in an endless loop around him. Matthew collapsed to his knees, his hands – they were bloody, too, oh God, what had he done, _where had all this blood come from_ – flew from his arms to his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands to his ears as hard as he physically could, desperately trying to block out or even just muffle the overwhelming noise shattering him from the inside out. It didn’t work, so he pressed harder. He could feel the grip of the shadows, their fingers so cold they felt hot as they jabbed into Matthew’s skin, uncaring and cruel. Each talon felt like the blade of his knife stabbing into him, and Matthew could feel blood beginning to pour out of the wounds at an alarming rate. Something wet was coursing down Matthew’s cheeks, but he couldn’t tell if it was tears or blood or sweat or some combination of the three. He still couldn’t breathe. The darkness of the back of his eyelids was becoming inkier and inkier as the shadows worked to submerge him entirely in darkness, to taint him. No place was sacred.

There were footsteps approaching him. Matthew cringed away. It was the green-eyed demon, he knew it. It was coming to kill him. Someone was calling his name again, and he flinched away from that, too. The sound of another person’s voice meant things that could touch him, and touching meant pain. It always meant pain. Trying desperately to draw a substantial breath, Matthew forced his hands away from his ears – now the shadows were forcing themselves in there, too, he could feel them – and back to his arms. He didn’t want to die like this. _Please don’t let me die like this._ There was the unmistakable sound of a knife’s blade scraping slowly along a wall, a long _skrrrritch_ that made the hairs on the back of Matthew’s neck stand up. Gasping a whimper, he went to curl his arms around his stomach to protect it – that was where the knife went first, that was always first – and found –

Something.

For a moment, sheer confusion made things quieter, made the shadows retreat just a little. Matthew ran his hands tentatively over the _something;_ he wouldn’t open his eyes, he didn’t want to see that green-eyed hellion as it came to kill him in the slowest and most painful way it could think of, but he could still try to figure out what the _fuck_ was going on. The thing was soft and fuzzy and it didn’t _feel_ threatening, but maybe –

Laughter, cold and cruel and calculated, fizzed through Matthew’s senses. He whimpered weakly and clung to the still-unidentified fuzzy thing as tightly as he could. The shadows began to cackle maniacally as well, a symphony of terrible joy at his fear and pain filling his ears and his lungs.

Something touched his shoulder. It wasn’t gripping him hard, but Matthew could feel what was next already: fingers, digging into his flesh and then tearing a chunk of his shoulder away, leaving a cascade of too-read blood flooding down Matthew’s back. He cried out and pulled himself away from the touch before it could turn painful and found himself falling sideways. When his head hit something hard and his downward momentum ceased, the shadows flinched for a moment and withdrew slightly. The hissing in his ears only few louder, but the backs of Matthew’s eyelids were a normal shade of black again.

Matthew slammed his head down again. The shadows’ hissing became angry, but they drew back further. There was a horrified cry from somewhere. The green-eyed demon. _Maybe this is banishing him, too._

He did it again.

And again, and again, and again, clawing and biting at any shadows that tried to stop him. They screamed and wailed and plead with him and the green-eyed demon was snarling, enraged, when Matthew dared to open his eyes again, but they were leaving. They were leaving, and he was making them go away, and he was _alive._ That was all that mattered.

Finally, the last of the shadows faded, hissing promises of pain and torture as it vanished. Matthew sighed in relief and slumped against the floor, exhausted, to try to regain control of his lungs. Alfred’s voice was frantic and panicked, offset by a smooth, placating voice laced with an accent that sounded German. Matthew had a hard time reconciliating that gentle voice with those awful eyes.

Eventually, Matthew managed to make his eyelids obey him and opened his eyes. Luckily, there wasn’t near as much blood as Matthew had expected; there was only a few thin scratches along his forearm that were already starting to scab over. He’d gotten away relatively unscathed, this time. The last time he’d had an attack like that, he’d had to get stitches because he’d torn his arms up so badly with his scratching.

The unidentified fuzzy thing in his arms turned out to be a small white polar bear plushy. Matthew stroked his fingers lightly over the faux fur on the top of its head, gad to see that he hadn’t bled on it or hurt it at all. The stuffed animal was cute and soft; it reminded Matthew of the little stuffed canary he’d had for most of his life. For a brief moment, Matthew wondered what had happened to the tattered old stuffed animal that he’d loved so much, but then he remembered. His green-eyed demon had told Matthew it was childish and gotten rid of it. Hatred snarled through Matthew for half a second, then fizzled out and was replaced with a bone-deep mixture of sadness and exhaustion that Matthew didn’t have the energy to deal with right then.

The floor creaked and Matthew hesitantly looked up as the albino – he had to be an albino, because there was no way that anyone in their right mind would intentionally turn their eyes that colour – sat in front of Matthew. His expression seemed genuinely concerned, but Matthew was still wary.

“Hey, are you all right?” the man asked. Matthew nodded. It was only partially a lie. “Okay. Well, how about we clean up your arms and then we can try the whole introductions thing again, all right?”

Matthew nodded again, then closed his eyes, this time because the world was beginning to spin at a rather alarming rate rather than because it was difficult for Matthew to look at the man who was probably his therapist. It was only when a tentative hand was set on Matthew’s should that he realized he was swaying rather unsteadily and finding it increasingly difficult to sit upright on his own. He had slumped backward against the wall, at one point, and had started sliding sideways down it, thus the hand on his arm. _Shit,_ Matthew sighed to himself in his head. Panic attacks were exhausting all on their own, but when coupled with schizophrenic episodes like this, Matthew always had a hard time staying awake afterward. _What a great first impression I’m making,_ he thought miserably. _I bet he already thinks I’m a lost cause._

He couldn’t even muster up the strength to pull away from the touch as consciousness fled his body, leaving him to fend for himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's still technically monday here shhh

_Well,_ Gilbert mused, spinning himself slowly around in the office chair set behind his desk, _at least Alfred wasn’t wrong about his brother’s schizophrenia._

Said brother was curled on top of a pile of beanbags Gilbert had tried to arrange into something close to a couch – it had turned out to be more of a mess than anything but at least it was semi functional – an arm wrapped like a vice around the polar bear plushy that usually sat on Gilbert’s desk. At least the thing finally had a use beyond being a decoration, Gilbert supposed, but Matthew Williams was still rather vexing. While his schizophrenia appeared to be mild compared to many of Gilbert’s other clients, episodic rather than a constant influence, it was clear that Matthew’s schizophrenia likely been caused more by trauma than the relatively even balance of genetic predisposition and trauma that triggered the break as was more common. It was a heartbreaking thought, so Gilbert tried to make it more clinical. It didn’t work very well, but he tried anyway.

Cleaning up Matthew’s arms had made Gilbert’s heart ache, too. Matthew’s arms were a mess of haphazard, crisscrossed scars, more scar tissue than unmarred skin. Some of the marks had obviously been inflicted intentionally with something sharp, likely by a hand other than Matthew’s. Some of the scars, on the other hand, were longer and less consistent, not chaotic gashes but frantic scratches that had probably been caused by attacks like the one he’d had in the hallway, Gilbert guessed. Matthew’s hands – and the rest of his body, if Gilbert had to guess – were in much the same state as his arms.

That was the other reason Matthew wasn’t quite like most of Gilbert’s other clients. Gilbert had seen a lot of things in his years as an inpatient psychiatrist, but he had never had anyone have a panic attack at the mere sight of him. He knew he was weird-looking, but _damn._ That was definitely a new one. Matthew’s reaction had left Gilbert wondering what it was about himself that had acted as such a potent trigger. Maybe Matthew’s abuser had been albino, too? Maybe the red tint to Gilbert’s eyes had been Matthew’s trigger? Gilbert didn’t know. What he _did_ know was that if Matthew was able to tell him what had happened and Gilbert was capable of preventing it from happening again, he would.

Of course, whether or not Matthew would be able to put into words what had triggered him was debatable at best and unlikely at the worst. Alfred had gone out of his way to warn Gilbert that Matthew didn’t speak much, but Alfred had been frustratingly vague. _‘Not much’_ could have easily meant anything from _‘he’s just shy and quiet around strangers, especially strangers he had a panic attack in front of the first time he ever saw them’_ to _‘he’s been mute from birth’_ to _‘he’s been so severely traumatized that it’s severely hindered his ability to vocalize.’_ Alfred hadn’t given Gilbert much background on what had happened to land Matthew in a psychiatric facility beyond ‘ _it was really bad.’_ It was understandable, of course – Gilbert knew it wasn’t exactly Alfred’s story to tell – but that didn’t make it any less hard to try to work with. It was far more difficult for Gilbert to know what tricks and coping methods would be most effective for his client if Gilbert had barely a full sentence about their condition. And if Matthew couldn’t – or wouldn’t – talk to Gilbert, then he wasn’t entirely sure how much he could do for Matthew at the moment.

Gilbert’s musings were interrupted by slow shuffling from the bean bags. He turned his chair away from the wall and found that Matthew was awake, curled up in the middle of the pile of bean bags and clutching the stuffed bear so tightly his knuckles were going white. When Gilbert stood and began to make his way around the desk, Matthew flinched, dropping the plushy in favour of curling his hands around the back of his neck. Matthew cowered away from Gilbert, as if he was afraid Gilbert would hit him. That probably _was_ what Matthew was afraid of, Gilbert thought sadly.

No matter how many people Gilbert had seen, no matter how many times someone told him something that sounded like something out of a horror story, he never got used to it. No matter how many times he moved too suddenly by accident and someone jerked away because they thought he was going to hit them, it never got any easier to see. This job, Gilbert thought, would never stop making his heart ache for the people who walked through his door. He hoped it wouldn’t, anyway. He would be a pretty shitty therapist if he lost the ability to empathize with his clients.

Carefully and with almost exaggerated slowness, Gilbert picked up Mathew’s glasses from the desk and crouched down a respectful distance from him, the glasses resting in Gilbert’s open palm as he offered them to Matthew.

“Here,” Gilbert said calmly. “I put them on the desk so they wouldn’t get broken or anything while you rested.”

For a moment, Matthew watched Gilbert suspiciously, clearly expecting a trick. Then Matthew’s hand darted out and snatched his glasses from Gilbert’s palms, so quickly that Gilbert knew Matthew had to have thought Gilbert would try to keep the glasses out of Matthew’s reach as soon as he went for them; a twisted version of keep-away, almost. The fact that Matthew had come to expect such pointless cruelty and mistreatment was upsetting and saddening and awful, though he was certainly not the first client Gilbert had come across with such expectations.

Matthew put his glasses on and blinked a couple times. His eyes, still a little red from crying, flicked to Gilbert’s face for half a second and then away again.

“Do you feel any better?” Gilbert asked, keeping his voice as calm and reassuring as he could. His accent tended to make this a rather difficult task; it sharpened the edges of his consonants and made him sound brusquer than he usually intended, so he had to actively work to not be intimidating. It helped that he wasn’t a wall of muscle like his brother, Ludwig. Gilbert was fairly certain that it was impossible for Ludwig to _not_ be intimidating, courtesy of both his stony expression and his hulking build. Matthew nodded, still looking wary. Gilbert was vaguely concerned that Matthew would pop one of the polar bear’s seams with how tight he was squeezing it. With what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he eased himself further to the floor so he was sitting cross-legged in front of Matthew.

“Can you tell me what upset you earlier?” Gilbert inquired tentatively.

Matthew hid his face in the fuzz on top of the polar bear’s head; Gilbert could see an embarrassed flush creeping up the back of Matthew’s neck. _Huh,_ Gilbert hummed in his head. He hadn’t met many people who got embarrassed because they’d had a panic attack in front of their therapist. In fact, most seemed to almost expect it, at least in Gilbert’s experience.

“Hey, now,” Gilbert soothed. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Panic attacks aren’t very fun, are they?”

Matthew glanced up and slowly shook his head. Gilbert offered Matthew another light smile in return. “Yeah, I agree; they’re pretty shitty. I’ve had a few myself, and I hate them.”

Although his surprise at the idea his therapist had ever had a panic attack was clear in his eyes, Matthew’s expression was curiously muted, as if he were either trying very hard to hide his emotions or repressing them altogether. Gilbert made a mental note to make sure he brought that particularly unhealthy habit up in a future session.

“Let’s try introductions again, how ’bout?”  

When Matthew nodded his consent, Gilbert extended his hand for Matthew to shake. He didn’t take it, but that was okay. Gilbert hadn’t really expected him to. It wasn’t uncommon for touch to be uncomfortable for Gilbert’s clients. Sometimes it was a fairly minor trigger and sometimes it was the exact opposite. In other, rarer cases, the client had actual haphephobia – fear of physical contact. Of course, honest to God haphephobia was far less common than touch being a trigger, but  until Gilbert knew more about Matthew and his situation, it couldn’t be ruled out for certain.

With a gentle smile, Gilbert withdrew his hand. Matthew seemed relieved. “My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt; I’m going to be your therapist while you’re here. You’re Matthew, right?”

Matthew nodded, but his wariness was about as subtle as a chainsaw. A little started, Gilbert realized that Alfred might not have told Matthew he’d gone to Gilbert before beginning the arrangements to transfer Matthew to Hetalia Psychiatric

“Your brother told me your name. He also said you don’t like to talk much. Is that right?”

Matthew huffed a short sigh through his nose and rolled his eyes a little, but nodded. Gilbert understood. He’d be pretty fed up, too, if he was related to Alfred Jones. Luckily for Gilbert, Ludwig was just about the best little brother Gilbert could have asked for. Of course, talking to Ludwig usually felt about the same as talking to a wall in Gilbert’s opinion, but hey, no one was perfect.

“Well, that’s perfectly all right. We can figure out other ways for you to communicate later, _ja?_ Is it okay if I just stick to asking you yes or no questions for now?”

Again, Matthew nodded tentatively. He was still wary and suspicious, which was understandable, but now Gilbert could see the absolute barest traces of a smile beginning to tug the corners of Matthew’s mouth upward. Gilbert was glad for it. His clients tended to agree almost unanimously that the first day was awful and stressful and overwhelming in the worst way possible, so Gilbert had taken to reserving his clients’ first day in the hospital for light topics and trying his best to at least get them to smile.

“Do you like ice cream?” Gilbert asked after half a beat of silence.

Matthew’s expression returned, still curiously muted, as he nodded for the third time. Gilbert grinned and stood, tilting his head toward the door. “Let’s go get some, then!”

Gilbert didn’t offer to help Matthew as he clambered to his feet, even though every instinct in Gilbert’s body was telling him to do so, courtesy of a lifetime of social conditioning. He settled for holding the door open for Matthew instead, knowing that Matthew probably appreciated being left to his own devices more than he would have appreciated the gesture. Matthew was still clutching the stuffed beat to his chest, but he had loosened his grip on it. Gilbert wasn’t worried about its head being squeezed off anymore, at least, which was certainly progress.

He led Matthew down the hall, to the office door labeled _R. Edelstein_ beneath the number 271. Gilbert was proud of himself; he only hesitated for a moment before knocking. Although he and Roderich had broken up a few months ago on good terms, casual conversations were still a little awkward. Maybe Matthew’s presence would help make the situation a bit more comfortable. Gilbert just hoped Roderich’s most recent client wasn’t there; the man was honestly frightening even though he was built like a scarecrow and so pale that even his eyes were a washed-out shade of green. His entire aura just screamed _dangerous,_ and it always put Gilbert on edge. Luckily, the exasperated Austrian who answered Gilbert’s knock was the only one in the room.

“What do you want, Gilbert? I’m trying to do paperwork.” Roderich huffed. Gilbert grinned cheekily in response.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Roddy,” Gilbert teased. “I know you hate paperwork. Now let us in; we need ice cream.”

Roderich kept a mini freezer of sweets in his office for whenever his clients were stressed. It was a little unorthodox, but Gilbert had to admit that it worked like a charm.

“We?” Roderich asked, glancing around as if confused. “I don’t see anyone else.”

Gilbert glanced over at Matthew. He was standing a little behind Gilbert, but not so much so that Matthew would be blocked from Roderich’s view.

“What do you mean? Matthew is right here.”

Roderich looked surprised when his gaze finally landed on Matthew, as if he had somehow appeared out of nowhere when Roderich wasn’t looking. “Oh,” Roderich said, startled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

Matthew just shrugged meekly and looked away, but the gesture was half-hearted and Gilbert saw the sadness typical of old, never-quite-healed wounds and tired insults lingering in Matthew’s eyes. This was not the first time Matthew had been overlooked like that, and Gilbert had the disturbing feeling that it probably wouldn’t be the last.

For some reason, that thought made Gilbert irrationally angry.

Roderich stepped aside and let them in, glancing guiltily at Matthew and then away as he passed. Still a bit miffed that Roderich hadn’t noticed Matthew, Gilbert headed straight for the freezer, yanking it open with perhaps a little more force than was strictly necessary. After talking half a breath to calm himself – _why am I so angry in the first place?_ – then turned to Matthew and smiled.

“Take your pick,” Gilbert hummed as he gestured to the freezer.

Matthew considered for a second, then his eyes lit up and he grabbed a container of maple pecan ice cream. He tucked it to his chest and sandwiched it between himself and the teddy bear; apparently he didn’t mind the cold. The corners of Gilbert’s lips quirked upward at Matthew’s enthusiasm and blindly reached for a container – he liked all the flavours Roderich kept stocked – then nudged the freezer shut again, gentler this time.

“Thanks for the impending brain freeze, Roddy,” Gilbert said as he and Matthew walked out of the office. Roderich closed the door on them when Gilbert tapped two fingers to his temple in a mocking sort of salute.

Gilbert and Matthew returned to Gilbert’s office, his mouth curling humorously when he realized that the way Matthew trailed behind him was an awful lot like the way baby birds followed their mothers. Every now and again, Matthew would peer down at the ice cream tucked to his chest, his lisp twitching into a minute, tentative smile every time, as if it was some sort of precious jewel or a prize he’d won. Then again, it probably was something to be treasured; even after months in a hospital, Matthew’s clothes hung loosely on his slight frame, and it was easy to tell that he was borderline malnourished even now. Gilbert shuddered a little to himself when he imagined the state that Matthew had to have arrived at the hospital in. Seeing people who were severely underweight or deathly pale was nothing new for Gilbert, but – _God,_ Matthew was so skinny it seemed like Gilbert could see Matthew’s ribs even through the thick sweater he was wearing. Not to mention the still-pink scars that had to have been fresh wounds when he’d been admitted to the hospital. It was so tempting, sometimes, for Gilbert to just ask outright what had happened, and he found the question pressing against his teeth as he and Matthew shuffled the bean bags around to sit in. But Gilbert kept his curiosity and protective instincts firmly in check where they couldn’t do anything that would hinder Matthew’s ability to heal. They weren’t allowed into open air. Not quite yet, anyway. That could wait for later, for an official session when Matthew had begun to trust and open up to Gilbert. _Do not rush,_ Gilbert reminded himself sternly, a little bit annoyed that he still had to tell himself this after three, nearly four, years of being an inpatient therapist. _Patience. You can’t force this. You have to be gentle. Calm. Supportive. Not nosy._

They chattered as they slowly ate their ice cream, not fully caring that it was melting steadily as they did. Well, Gilbert talked, and Matthew listened, but that was okay. Gilbert was good at talking for hours on end – he always had been, but at least now it was an asset instead of just something to piss off his parents with – and Matthew was good at conveying what he needed with body language, so it was a whole lot less of a one-sided conversation than most would expect. And Gilbert hadn’t really expected Matthew to interact at all, so it was a pleasant surprise to find that he did. It certainly bid well for Matthew’s recovery, at least. Despite the fact that Matthew never said a word, Gilbert managed to get a fairly good sense of Matthew’s personality. He seemed to have a relatively dry sense of humour; a fondness for anything small, soft, and fluffy – Gilbert could relate – and an astonishingly bright outlook on the world and the human condition, especially for someone who had so clearly been through hell and back. Gilbert was honestly a little awed by him.

When both the ice cream and the conversation ran out, Gilbert called Tino, a Finnish nurse, to take Matthew back to his room. He still seemed a little tense, but he had relaxed considerably since he’d arrived. He hadn’t had another panic attack, anyway, which was hopefully a positive sign, though Gilbert did notice Matthew had clung to the polar bear plushy like it was a lifeline the entire time he’d had it. As he’d gone to leave the office, Matthew had tried to give it back to Gilbert, but Matthew’s reluctance had been clear. Gilbert shook his head and pressed the plushy back into Matthew’s hands.

“You have more use for it than I do,” Gilbert hummed, and Mathew had smiled shyly, then curled his arms back around the teddy bear.

Gilbert couldn’t help but smile back.


	4. Chapter 4

This was not what Matthew had pictured his first day at an inpatient psychiatric facility would be like. He wasn’t complaining, of course – what kind of idiot would complain about being treated like a human being after so many years of being treated like a ragdoll? – but it was still a little bit disconcerting. Matthew had been expecting orderlies that were so jacked they could double as security and bedrooms without doors so no one could ever be locked inside and someone in a stiff white lab jacket for a psychiatrist and a complete loss of privacy in general. He had expected something cold and white and sterile and harsh. What he had gotten was… definitely not that. What Matthew had gotten was kind people and a slight blond nurse who was even smaller than Matthew and a man in a t-shirt and jeans for a psychiatrist.

It was so much better than Matthew could have ever imagined. The bedroom Tino had led Matthew to even had a door, although it didn’t lock.

And then there was Gilbert. It was amazing, Matthew though, how utterly that man defied every single one of Matthew’s expectations. It was a little jarring to be met with that awful shade of red every time Matthew met Gilbert’s eyes, sure, but hopefully he would help Matthew past that, eventually, or maybe Mathew would even get through it on his own with time. Either way, with any luck, it would turn out to be a brief issue; a minor one, if nothing else. Matthew especially hoed he wouldn’t have any more panic attacks over something as stupid as Gilbert’s eye colour. Gilbert had said it was nothing to be ashamed of, but how was Matthew supposed to _not_ be embarrassed. That couldn’t be something Gilbert was used to, could it? Maybe it was. Maybe he was just used to people being confused and panic wasn’t too far off from judgement.

Either way, Matthew was incredibly grateful that he had gotten Gilbert as his therapist. Gilbert hadn’t pressed Matthew to explain anything. Matthew hadn’t even tried to get Matthew to say anything at all. Instead, Gilbert had just smiled and given Matthew ice cream and a stuffed toy to hold onto when he felt panic and fear beginning to fill his lungs. It had been a welcome change, being noticed and then never being told to _just talk; it isn’t that hard._ Gilbert hadn’t expected anything at all from Matthew besides the ability to nod yes or no, and it had alleviated a burden that he hadn’t even realized had had been carrying until Gilbert had taken it from Matthew’s shoulders. Despite the fact that Matthew had had an unnecessary breakdown the first time he’d seen Gilbert – _God,_ he’d never be able to forgive himself for that one – Gilbert had been nothing but friendly and kind and positive and sweet toward Matthew. It was refreshing to be _seen,_ to be noticed, to be treated with even a modicum of respect. What had happened with that other man, Roderich – _that_ was what was normal for Matthew. People tended to overlook him or ignore him outright, so it was always a nice change when someone actually _saw_ Matthew.

Of course, the last person who had noticed Matthew right off the bat and been so overwhelmingly kind had turned out to be the sort of demon Matthew had previously only believed to live in nightmares.

The thought was sobering, and Matthew’s lingering smile slipped reluctantly from his face. He hadn’t thought of it that way before then, but now that he had, Matthew wasn’t able to _stop_ thinking about it. He found it hard to imagine that Gilbert would ever hurt him, but… to be fair, he’d thought the same of his demon, at least as first. Matthew shuddered. Now that he considered it more carefully, it would be scarily easy for Gilbert to take complete control of Matthew if he wanted. Gilbert was a therapist, for crying out loud. He had far more power than Matthew, and it would be so incredibly simple for Gilbert to use that power against his clients without so much as a second thought. If he wanted, Gilbert could drug Matthew and use that to subdue him, or claim he needed to be restrained and put him in a straightjacket, or take exposure therapy too far. The more Matthew thought about it, the more he realized exactly how many ways he could be abused by the man with the too-kind voice. That would explain the eyes, too. No good person could possibly have eyes that colour. Matthew should have trusted his instincts the first time.

The ice cream, the understanding, the plushy, not forcing Matthew to try to speak – it was all a lie, Matthew was sure of it. All of it was just a sweet mask that would crumble into sugarcoated bits of hopelessness eventually and reveal Gilbert for the demon he surely was. Matthew couldn’t believe himself He had promised himself – he had promised _Alfred_ – that he would be more careful from here on out, and then he had almost happily waltzed right into the same trap as before.

 _At least it was only almost,_ he told himself. _I won’t fall for that again._

Matthew was half-tempted to burst into tears. Of course it would turn out like this. Of _course_ it would. Why wouldn’t it? Since when was Matthew allowed to trust people who weren’t his family? Since when had he been allowed the luxury of _hope?_ Since when had he become stupid enough to believe kindness didn’t come win an ugly, glaring, painful price tag? He should know better by now. There was no excuse for that sort of naivety anymore. How had he convinced himself, for even a moment, that anyone with that much power and ability to control Matthew could possibly be as genuine and sweet as they appeared? How had he fooled himself into believing that he could ever be truly safe, especially around a man like that? Matthew didn’t know how he’d allowed himself to be so absolutely _stupid,_ but he refused to do it again. He wouldn’t let himself fall for that again. He couldn’t afford it mentally, and he didn’t think he would be able to survive a repeat of the last two years. Matthew just didn’t think he was strong enough for that. He’d die before he could get saved a second time, and then he’d just become another nameless, faceless victim of abuse among all the others, forgotten and only half-cared about. Matthew did not want to be a mere statistic. Matthew did not want to need saving all the time, like some sort of useless fairy tale damsel in distress who always wound up imprisoned and never seemed to learn from her mistakes.

Matthew didn’t want to hurt anymore. Was that such a bad thing?

 _So I won’t,_ Matthew told himself firmly, trying to convince his heart to slow its frightened fluttering. _I won’t let anyone else hurt me. If Dr. Beilschmidt tries anything, I’ll just… kick him, or something. I’ll run._

A slow, cruel laugh began to hiss like static in Matthew’s wears. His heart plummeted and every ounce of blood in his veins went ice cold. _No. Please, no. Not right now._

 _“Do you really think it would be that easy?”_ The green-eyed demon snarled. Matthew could feel its claws digging into his shoulders as it sidled up behind him, like little chips of ice. “ _You couldn’t get away from him if you tried. Or anyone else, for that matter.”_

“You’re wrong,” Matthew breathed, curling forward in a desperate, fruitless attempt to get away from the demon. “I could do it. You don’t control me anymore.”

 _“Don’t I?”_ cackled the demon, its frozen breath whispering over Matthew’s cheek and making him shudder in disgust. _“Even now, you can’t run away from me. What makes you think you could run from anyone else?”_

Matthew’s breath was coming in fast, shallow gasps, despite his efforts to calm it. He had started trembling, too, and he hated himself for it. He didn’t want to be afraid of this specter anymore, but he couldn’t help it. It was an immediate response to the stench of rum on the demon’s frigid breath, the glint of a smirk as bright as it was cruel caught out of the corner of Matthew’s eye, the prick of claws through his sleeves, sharp as knives and probably drawing blood. There was no way for Matthew to calm himself down or soothe away the panic rising like bile in his throat, and he despised it. He absolutely _despised_ that his demon could render him so entirely helpless with barely even a sentence.

 _“After all,”_ the demon giggled, trailing one of its stone-cold talons along the line of Matthew’s jaw, _“you’re so week and helpless right now. I mean, look at you, trembling like a leaf. Do you want to know what I think?”_

“No,” Matthew whimpered, not even able to shake his head because he was so paralyzed with fear. “No.”

Suddenly there were claws at Matthew’s throat, and his breath hitched in terror.

 _“Wrong answer,”_ the demon growled. Matthew was sure there was blood dripping down his neck. Of course the demon hadn’t listened to Matthew’s _‘no.’_ It never had. Why would it start now?

 _“What I think,”_ the demon continued, _“is that you_ wanted _what I gave you.”_ Every cell in Matthew’s body told him it was false, but he couldn’t find the courage to deny it out loud. He didn’t particularly want his throat ripped out for choking back.

 _“You never tried to run from me,”_ the demon purred, the hand that wasn’t around Matthew’s neck slipped beneath his shirt to rest on his stomach. Matthew’s skin began to crawl. _“You never tried to resist. You never fought. You just cried ever so sweetly, just the way I like. You knew that I liked it, didn’t you? And you liked it, too. That’s why you always put on a pretty show for me, tears and all.”_

As if summoned by the demon’s taunts, a tear rolled slowly down Mathew’s cheek. The demon cackled.

 _“Yes, just like that. You were such a good boy for me,”_ the demon crooned, its voice dripping with false, sickly sweet affection. _“You were always so good at making your screams nice and pretty for me.”_

Matthew whimpered as the hand on his stomach slid lower, the tips of its claws scratching painfully as they were dragged along his skin.

 _“Maybe you should scream for me some more,”_ the demon murmured. Matthew could practically hear its sadistic grin.

“No!” Matthew screeched, finally finding his voice. He couldn’t bring himself to care about the claws hooking deeper into his throat when the demon’s other hand was creeping closer and closer to his belt line. “Stop it!”

The demon still didn’t care. It never had. Other shadows were beginning to creep from the corners to watch, their hissing laughter slowly filling Matthew’s ears. Panic and terror threatened to choke him as they expanded in his chest. The demon was toying with the waistband of his jeans now, and Matthew’s tears had started falling faster. He began to struggle, strained little noises escaping him as he thrashed in the demon’s grip. Matthew hated this part. He had always hated this part. This was worse than anything else he had endured during his time in that basement. It was worse than any of the cutting or the burning or the cawing or the beating any of the other things the demon had done to him. This sort of violation went beyond just pain. It was dehumanizing and agonizing and felt fundamentally _wrong._ It felt scarring and frightening and as if Matthew was being irreparably broken.

Matthew jabbed his elbow backward. It didn’t feel like he’d hit anything, but the green-eyed demon growled and its grip loosened. It was enough. Matthew jolted forward, desperate to get away. He overshot by accident and ended up tumbling to the floor, gasping when he landed wrong on his wrist. There was no time to worry about whether or not it was broken, though, because the other shadows were already reaching toward him, cackling cruelly at him. If the shadows got their claws into him, Mathew knew he wouldn’t be able to get away again.

There was a light in the center of the ceiling, and the pool of light directly beneath it was bright enough that the shadows skirted around it as they swarmed at him. Matthew scrambled toward it, sobbing in relief when the shadows brave enough to venture into the life began to dissipate, hissing angrily. Matthew drew his knees to his chest and cried into them. It seemed like the demon’s touch had left icy trails of revulsion on Matthew’s skin. He tried to scratch it off. It didn’t work, but the pain made the shadows – and, more importantly, the demon – flicker and snarl angrily, just like it had before.

Relief flooded through Matthew. He had a way to banish the demon and its shadowy minions. He had a way to escape their lingering eyes and their cruel cackling and their wandering hands. It wasn’t a _healthy_ way to do so, Matthew knew, but how could be bring himself to care when caring meant giving up the only modicum of control that he had over this hellish, messy situation. The answer was that he couldn’t. There was no way that Matthew wasn’t going to use every possible tool he had at his disposal to get himself out of the mental hellhole he was stuck in, even if only temporarily, no matter how unhealthy his coping mechanisms were. At this point, Matthew didn’t care if he got hurt. Besides, it was better to hurt himself than get torn to pieces by the green-eyed demon.

 _“You can’t push me away forever,”_ the demon snarled, its rage palpable even from a distance. _“You are_ mine, _Matthew. I own you. You would be nothing without me and you know it. I will have you again, no matter what you do. Mark my words, you little bitch. You can’t escape me again.”_

“I won’t let you touch me anymore,” Matthew cried, gasping as his nails dug harder into the skin stretched over his ribcage. “I’ll die before that ever happens again.”

 _“You don’t have the courage for that,”_ snapped the demon, even as its shadows began to retreat. _“You’re a coward at heart, and you deserved everything I gave you. You_ wanted _it, remember?”_

“No, I didn’t!” Matthew whimpered, shaking his head vehemently. “I didn’t want any of it! You’re lying!”

 _“The only one who’s being a liar is you,”_ the demon spat as it began to fade. _“You know you wanted it. The sooner you admit it, the sooner you can come back to me and stop bothering everyone around you with your fucking useless whining. Get over yourself, you little bitch.”_

It was angry. Matthew could see how livid the demon was, but for once, he didn’t care. Maybe because it couldn’t get to him in his little pool of light, or maybe because it was already mostly gone. Either way, its rage wasn’t nearly as paralyzing and frightening as it usually was, and Matthew was glad for it. He didn’t think he had the energy to be afraid, anyway.

The demon fizzled out with one last enraged hiss, and Matthew slumped onto his side with a grateful sob. The skin on his stomach hurt, and he knew he was probably bleeding again. At least it didn’t feel like his throat was bleeding. That was a plus, Matthew supposed, if nothing else about this situation was even remotely positive.

A wave of self-hatred crashed over Matthew. He couldn’t believe himself. This was such complete and utter _bullshit._ If Matthew thought it would have helped, he would have slapped himself upside the head. Unfortunately, he was a coward when it came to self-inflicted pain, for the most part, and he had very little strength in his arms, so that wasn’t exactly a viable solution at the moment. The idea still had merit, though, so Matthew filed it away for later.

Matthew wiped his eyes furiously with the heels of his hands. It was a rather futile effort since the tears were still falling, but he did it a couple times anyway. He couldn’t _believe_ that he had actually thought Gilbert would hurt him. It was a disgusting thought, no matter how brief a time it had lived. If Gilbert had been the type to abuse people with less power than him, he never would have been hired – at least, not _here,_ of all places, in a facility that housed people who were more broken than many. That, and if Gilbert _had_ been going to take advantage of Matthew, there had already been plenty of opportunities for Gilbert to do so. Matthew had been unconscious in Gilbert’s office for almost an hour, for God’s sake. If he had wanted to take advantage of Matthew, it would have been impossibly easy for him to do so then. And if Gilbert had been the type to get off on power imbalances, he could have taunted Matthew with his glasses or the ice cream or any of the kindness at all that Gilbert had shown Matthew.

 _Clearly, I’m more fucked up than I thought, if I’m worried about people like Gilbert hurting me,_ Matthew thought miserably.

Something in Matthew felt fundamentally broken, or at least twisted out of shape to the point of being beyond recognition. Maye it was his ability to trust or maybe he’d just finally been stripped of the last of his childish naivety. Maybe he’d just finally grown up, and that was why his chest seemed to be simultaneously emptier than a politician’s promises and filled with more cement than had gone into every sidewalk in New York City combined. No matter what the reason, Matthew decidedly hated it.

Matthew curled up in the soft-edged circle of light, still lying on his side, and reached out just far enough to tug the teddy bear to his chest. Another thing that Gilbert could have easily lorded over Matthew and hadn’t. Another thing that Gilbert hadn’t needed to do but had done anyway because it was the kinder option. Matthew really was the worst for having thought so horrible of someone who was so evidently kind.

He let his eyes close slowly. As per usual, his panic attack had thoroughly exhausted him, and he felt like absolute shit. This was normal, but that didn’t necessarily mean Matthew had to like it. He hoped not, anyway, but even if it was required, he wasn’t entirely sure he cared. He was doing a pretty bad job of it, in an case.

Objectively, Matthew knew that falling asleep on the floor was a bad idea, at least in the long run. It certainly wasn’t as comfortable as the bed, and Matthew had slept on a cold cement floor for the past few years, so it wasn’t like he even really _wanted_ to sleep on the floor. But on the moment, Matthew didn’t know if he had the energy to move to the bed That, and the mattress wasn’t quite flush against the wall, which mean there was a thin slice of shadow between the mattress and the wall. It made Matthew uneasy. He could imagine how simple it would be for the green-eyed demon to slither out of that tiny sliver of darkness to put its revolting hands on Matthew while he slept. Come to think of it, that was probably where the demon had come from just a few minutes earlier. Matthew shuddered at the though.

He laid there for a while, halfheartedly trying to fight off sleep despite know it was inevitable. He still felt awful for having thought ill of Gilbert in such a terrible way. Matthew didn’t like that he was capable of that. Negative thoughts and pessimism were not only two things Matthew tried desperately to avoid, but his hope and borderline-frantic optimism was all that had kept him going throughout everything the demon had done to him. If he lost that now Matthew thought he might actually go insane.

 _I’m sorry, Gilbert,_ Matthew thought as sleep finally won and dragged him into unconsciousness, _but I don’t think you can fix me._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who posted before 11 tonight!

Gilbert was greeted with an angry Arthur Kirkland when he walked through the front doors of the psychiatric hospital that morning. Arthur looked positively livid, with his arms crossed and his foot tapping an irritated beat on the floor. Gilbert sighed. It had been nearly a month and a half since he had brought Francis in to Alfred, and apparently they had done almost nothing but butt heads since. Of course, this was partially due to the fact that Francis was beyond reluctant to trust anyone with any details about his life or mental illness, and this wariness extended even to licensed professionals. It had taken Gilbert and Antonio years to wrestle enough information out of Francis to help him even a little, and the three of them had been friends since they were kids. It made sense that Francis was being stubborn; he’d only known Arthur for a little over a month. Unfortunately, Arthur didn’t quite seem to grasp that notion, and they didn’t have years to wait for Francis to warm up to Arthur. For one thing, there was no way Francis’ insurance would continue to pay to keep him here that long. For another, Gilbert wasn’t entirely sure Francis had a few years left at all if he didn’t get some serious help, and soon.

“What’s up?” Gilbert asked Arthur in a falsely bright voice, twitching a little when a raindrop slid down the length of Gilbert’s nose. It was pouring down rain outside, and Gilbert had gotten soaked. At least it wasn’t hailing yet. Supposedly, it was going to snow sometime soon, but Gilbert wasn’t going to get his hopes up.

“We need to talk,” Arthur gritted out from between clenched teeth. Gilbert’s heart sunk. That wasn’t a good sign.

Gilbert sighed and dragged a hand across his face, instantly regretting the act when his hand came away sopping wet. “Fine.  Can we have this discussion in my office, at least?”

Arthur gestured as if to say he didn’t care, which Gilbert had pretty much already figured out for himself. Gilbert headed up to his office, vaguely hoping that Arthur wouldn’t follow. He did, and Gilbert sighed again. He was exhausted, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to placate an irate Englishman today.

Gilbert barely had time to shut the office door behind them before Arthur spoke, his voice firm and calm. “I’m transferring Francis to another therapist.”

The world tiled on its axis. Gilbert couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Excuse me?”

Arthur ran a tired hand through his hair and made an exasperated noise. “I can’t deal with him! He refuses my attempts to help, he won’t do anything but flirt, and yesterday I caught him trying to purge! Clearly he doesn’t trust me, so I’m going to send him to someone who might actually be able to do him some good.”

Gilbert usually didn’t consider himself to be a very violent guy, but right then, he desperately wanted to punch Arthur. “I brought him to you for a _reason,_ Arthur. You’re the only one who’s going to be able to get through to him.”

“I can’t get through to him at all unless _someone_ tells me what’s gone on! He won’t tell me anything, Gilbert, so unless you or Antonio do –”

“You know I can’t do that,” Gilbert reminded Arthur firmly. That was not Gilbert’s story to tell, and he wouldn’t betray Francis’ trust like that, even if it was to help him.

“Then get him to tell me!” Arthur cried, flinging his hands out to the side to emphasize his point. “Or at least convince him to do something other than flirt with me! The only thing he seems interested in is getting in my pants.”

“The flirting is a _defense mechanism!”_ Gilbert shouted, beginning to lose his patience. For someone who was supposedly such a great therapist, Arthur seemed incredibly dense. “You can’t just expect him to open up to you immediately, Arthur, Jesus Christ. You know that. He’s just scared, for fuck’s sake.”

“He won’t even tell me his favourite colour,” Arthur snapped. “If the damn frog would just – ”

Immediately, rage flooded Gilbert’s system. Before he even knew what he was doing, Gilbert slammed Arthur against the wall, hands gripping Arthur’s collar rightly enough to visibly stretch the fabric.

“Do _not,”_ growled Gilbert, “call him that. _Ever._ Especially to his face. Do you understand me?”

Arthur’s face was pale and his eyes were wide. Dimly, Gilbert realized that Arthur had never been around to see Gilbert when he was well and truly furious before. Well, there was a first time for everything, and Gilbert couldn’t bear to hear anyone refer to Francis like that.

Reluctantly, Arthur nodded. Gilbert released him and stepped back, jaw still clenched with barely-restrained anger. “Good. And don’t you dare transfer him. He needs you, Arthur, and he needs your help, whether he’ll admit it or not.”

Arthur nodded again, and guiltily, Gilbert realized that he had probably frightened Arthur more than actually persuaded him. Although Gilbert didn’t like being someone to be afraid of, it was hard to regret his actions when they had prevented Arthur from doing something that could have very possibly killed Francis.

Gilbert collapsed into his office chair with a sigh as Arthur scurried out of the room. Sometimes, Gilbert hated his job. Sure, he helped people get back on their feet after enduring some of the most heinous things a human being could survive, but he could still barely help his best friend. Guilt threated to chew Gilbert to bits, so he pushed it away. For once, he was glad for paperwork. It was, if nothing else, something to keep his mind busy and direct his focus to anywhere but how helpless he felt.

Since he didn’t have any appointments scheduled for the day, Gilbert spent nearly half of it doing paperwork. At some point it had started hailing; Gilbert could hear it bounding against the window in a flurry of sharp, startling clicks. The wind was whipping at the trees outside, and it was so cloudy that it looked like it was six o’clock in the evening even though it was barely noon. The lights were beginning to flicker slightly, and Gilbert was vaguely worried the power would go out. There were backup generators, of course, but they were old, and Gilbert wasn’t entirely sure how reliable they were. Just in case, he  checked the batteries in his portable phone charger and the flashlights he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. With a yawn, Gilbert turned reluctantly back to his paperwork. It was boring and tedious and time-consuming, but it was necessary, and Gilbert didn’t particularly want to lose his job because he didn’t do his paperwork on time. Of course, it was hard to concentrate with only of three hours of sleep from the night before, but he couldn’t fix that now. Gilbert had spent most of the previous night alternating between worrying about Francis and worrying about his own clients, particularly Matthew. In the month and a half that Gilbert had known Matthew, he had managed to lodge himself firmly in Gilbert’s thoughts. It wasn’t that Gilbert was complaining, but he was a bit concerned nonetheless. For one thing, Matthew still hadn’t spoken a word, at least not around Gilbert. As hard as Gilbert tried to be patient, it was starting to become a serious concern of his that Matthew may have lost the ability to speak entirely. Elective mutism wasn’t uncommon, especially in people who had been as severely traumatized as Matthew appeared to be, but it was rare that someone lost the ability to verbalize entirely. It happened, yes, but Gilbert had never seen it for himself. He was worried Matthew was about to change that. It wouldn’t prevent Gilbert from helping Matthew, of course; he was fluent in ASL, and even if Matthew wasn’t, there were other ways to communicate without ever saying a word. What it would mean, however, was brain scans to check for neurological damage and screening for TBIs and at least three other people getting involved in Matthew’s case and a whole lot more stress for Matthew that Gilbert would much rather avoid if it was at all possible. All in all, Gilbert rather hoped Matthew would regain his speech soon, but Gilbert was also fully prepared to give Matthew all the support and resources he’d need if he didn’t.

However, just because Matthew hadn’t spoken didn’t mean that he hadn’t told Gilbert anything at all. Since Matthew’s arrival, Gilbert had discovered that Matthew was twenty four years old, making him only a year younger than Gilbert; Matthew adored all animals, but he ever so slightly preferred dogs to cats; his favourite colour was yellow; he was Alfred’s brother by adoption rather than blood, and Matthew’s biological family was entirely Canadian. Gilbert had also learned that the colour read was a severe trigger for Matthew – which explained his panic the first time he’d seen Gilbert – as were knives of any sort; Matthew had been severely isolated for the majority of the duration of his trauma, though he didn’t give any details or explanation; and Matthew’s ex-boyfriend was likely tied to Matthew’s trauma in one way or another, if the anxiety and general unease Matthew displayed every time his ex was brought up was anything to go by. They had started working on ways to help Matthew cope with panic attacks, especially if and when one of his triggers appeared without any warning, and it was going well, if Gilbert did say so himself. Matthew was a quick study and seemed intent on learning healthier coping mechanisms, which was never a bad thing.

Lightning flashed, followed a bit later by a boom of thunder. The lights flickered out. They came back on after a moment, but Gilbert eyed his drawer warily, debating whether or not he should pull his flashlights back out as a precaution. Lightning lit the room again. Gilbert pulled the flashlights out and set them on his desk.

This continued for a few more hours, and Gilbert began to tune the storm out in favour of focusing on his paperwork. If he kept up a steady pace like this until the end of the day, he might even be able to sleep in a little later than usual tomorrow instead of coming in early to finish the previous day’s busy work. Hell, if he kept going like this, he might even be able to get a head start on tomorrow’s paperwork.

Then the screaming started. Lightning flashed again, but this time, it was immediately followed by the thunder, and someone began to scream so loudly it echoed off the walls, making it impossible to tell where it came from. A chill ran down Gilbert’s spine. Contrary to popular belief, screaming and wailing weren’t common sounds to hear in a psychiatric hospital, and if you _did_ hear anything like that, then something was seriously wrong. Gilbert ran through his current clients in his head, reassuring himself that lightning storms was a trigger for none of them. Many liked weather like this, as a matter of fact. Besides Matthew, the only of Gilbert’s clients he would have been concerned about had gone home early the day before, so it definitely wasn’t her screaming.

Just as Gilbert was about to stand and go check on Matthew, the office door burst open. To Gilbert’s surprise and absolute relief, Matthew was the one standing in the doorway. Another scream bounced through the halls. _Well, at least I know it isn’t Matthew._

When Gilbert looked a little more carefully, however, he realized that Matthew was very much not okay, even if he wasn’t the one screeching like his soul was being ripped form his body and shredded. Matthew was shaking visibly, every inch of him trembling, and his hands were curled so tightly around the stuffed polar bear that his knuckles and the tips of his fingers were going white. His eyes were wide and round and terrified and Gilbert could see the beginnings of tears sparkling in them.

“Matthew?” Gilbert asked worriedly, standing from his chair. “Is everything all right?”

Clearly, being a therapist didn’t mean Gilbert stopped asking stupid questions. Matthew was very clearly _not_ all right, and Gilbert kind of wanted to smack himself upside the head for having asked that. He didn’t, though. Demonstrating self-destructive behavior in front of a client was never a good idea, put it was to be particularly avoided in the presence of a crying, half-panicked client.

Matthew didn’t seem to notice how superfluous the question was, because he shook his head and wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. The lights flickered again, this time staying out for a couple seconds before coming back on almost reluctantly. Matthew’s breath was coming faster, now, and it was clear that the potential power outage was what was frightening him. Gilbert pulled out a blanket from the drawer the flashlights had been in and shook it out, grimacing a little at the resulting dust cloud.

Gilbert handed Matthew the blanket, careful not to touch him. Sometimes Matthew was okay with being touched, at least briefly, but Gilbert was willing to bet good money that touch was off limits right now, cine Matthew was so clearly shaken. “Here,” Gilbert murmured. Matthew wrapped the blanket gratefully around his shoulders and sniffled.

The lights went off again. Matthew’s breath audibly hitched. Whoever was screaming had started up again, making Matthew whimper. Gilbert waited for a few seconds to see if the lights would come back on. When they didn’t, Gilbert grabbed one of the flashlights off his desk and flicked it on. Matthew had curled up in a bean bag, his arms thrown over the back of his head. He was crying now. Gilbert could hear Matthew sobbing, and his shaking had changed from the trembling that came from fear to that of  crying so hard your entire body was wracked with the force of your tears. With a quiet, worried sigh, Gilbert grabbed the other flashlight and turned it on, too, then set both on the floor. Luckily, the flashlights were bright enough that it illuminated most of the room, if dimly.

“Matthew,” Gilbert said gently.” Can you give me a number for your anxiety?”

There was no response for a few moments, then Matthew held up eight shaky fingers. Gilbert nodded; his chest tightened painfully at the sight of Matthew’s tear-stained cheeks.

“All right. Have you tried any of the technique’s we’ve talked about?” Matthew nodded. “Did they work?” Matthew shook his head.

“That’s okay,” Gilbert reassured when he noticed how Matthew had curled his shoulders inward as if he was ashamed. “Is there a specific way you would like me to help, or would you prefer to try and sort through this on your own?”

Another brief pause, then Matthew signed _write_ with tentative, unsure hands. Gilbert had been teaching Matthew some basic sign language to make communication at least a little easier, and Matthew had been picking it up astonishingly quickly. Nodding, Gilbert pulled a clipboard from a drawer and handed to, along with a pen, to Matthew. As Matthew wrote, Gilbert sat cross-legged in front of Matthew. After a minute of scribbling anxiously on the paper, Matthew handed the clipboard back to Gilbert. _‘Talk to me.’_

Gilbert was only a little bit surprised. They had discovered early that noise was helpful in keeping Matthew grounded in the present, especially low voices or music with lyrics, so the request that Gilbert talk was no all that out of the blue in and of itself. Still, Gilbert was surprised and a little awed that Matthew wanted to hear _Gilbert’s_ vice instead of listening to music or taking advantage of any of the other ways to handle this sort of situation they had discussed.

“I can do that.”

And he did. Gilbert rambled on and on about the most inane, mundane things he could think of. It was mostly gossip, honestly, but it did the trick. Gilbert talked about how his pet canary, Gilbird, liked to antagonize Ludwig’s dogs and then act like he was the victim when a dog’s teeth snapped shut a bit too close to his wing. Gilbert talked about how much he hated paperwork but his love for every other aspect of his job outweighed the tedium. He talked about how he suspected that Ludwig was romantically involved with Feliciano, one of the nurses. Gilbert rattled off random, useless knowledge he had collected over the years that had only ever been useful for obscure questions in trivia games and situations like this. He told Matthew about the time Ludwig had sworn he despised dogs because he’d been bitten by one when he was seven, and how funny it still was that Ludwig now had six dogs despite promising rather vehemently that he would never own even one. Gilbert told Matthew about when Roderich had tried to bake a three-tier cake for Gilbert’s birthday and accidentally set both the cake and the over on fire. Gilbert snickered through stories of all the trouble he, Francis, and Antonio  had gotten into during their high school years.

Gilbert talked for what was probably close to an hour, until the backup generator finally kicked in and the lights flickered back on. They really did need to replace that thing; it was a liability Gilbert wasn’t sure they could afford if it took this long to turn on. Some of the medications needed to be refrigerated, and if the power kept going out and then coming back an hour or two later, they would run the risk of losing some pretty expensive meds. Gilbert made a mental note to make sure he mentioned it to Augustus, the owner of the hospital.

“Better?” Gilbert asked when Matthew looked up again and began to wipe at his cheeks.

When Matthew nodded, Gilbert smiled. The storm was still raging – and maybe it was still hailing, but Gilbert wasn’t sure – was still pounding at the window, but Matthew seemed considerably calmer now that the lights were back on and the screaming had stopped. He slumped sideways in the beanbag and sighed slowly through his nose as he tugged the blanket tighter around himself. Gilbert smiled a little; apparently Matthew was going to take a nap, right there on the floor of Gilbert’s office. Not that Gilbert minded.

“Don’t forget to take your glasses off before you fall asleep,” Gilbert reminded gently as he stood with a yawn.

Matthew nodded and took his glasses off. He set them on the floor without opening his eyes and then curled back up. Gilbert shook his head, amused, and retreated to his desk, picking up the flashlights and turning them off as he went. He had paperwork to finish.

That plan only lived for about an hour and a half, though. Gilbert found himself being slowly lulled to sleep but the repetitiveness and the tedium, and more than once he found himself jerking awake when his face hit the desk because he’d been unwittingly dozing. Eventually, Gilbert had to admit defeat and tossed his pen onto the desk with a yawn. Stretching, Gilbert stood. For a minute, he considered going to the staff room for a nap, then decided his bean bags were fine. That was half the reason they were there, anyway, and Matthew looked comfortable enough. With another yawn, Gilbert rounded the desk and collapsed face first into a small pile of bean bags, groaning a little in contentment with the feeling of lying down. It only took seconds for sleep to claim him, and he went with a smile on his face and his arms open.


	6. Chapter 6

The ascent into consciousness was slow. That was Matthew’s first indication that something was different. Usually, he hurtled almost violently into wakefulness, thrown into it by a nightmare or a memory or some other manifestation of the green-eyed demon in his head. This time, however, Matthew floated up out of sleep, gently rising upward like a leaf floating to the top of a pond.

Matthew decided he liked this better. It was less jarring and much more enjoyable this way.

The second strange thing Matthew noticed was that his sleep had been entirely dreamless. He hadn’t had a single nightmare. Matthew hadn’t even had a normal dream that could have turned into a nightmare if given enough time. Again, Matthew wasn’t exactly complaining. He was perfectly fine with the idea of having no nightmares, of sleeping through the night, of not waking up in a panic. For the first time in years, Mathew felt calm, even rested, after having slept. This was very much a welcome change.

Matthew’s only question was _why._ What had made this time different? Matthew didn’t know. If he figured it out, though, he could maybe replicate it, and maybe sleep could go back to being something he enjoyed and looked forward to instead of something he was terrified of. God, he hoped he could do that. If there was one thing the demon had taken from Matthew that he missed more than anything, it was his sleep.

Not quite ready to open his eyes yet, Matthew shifted, tentatively trying to remember where he was. The thing he was lying on crackled and gave way beneath him in a way that meant it definitely wasn’t a mattress. Matthew remembered, then, in a quick burst of realization: he was in Gilbert’s office, lying on a bean bag. He’d quite possible been there for hours.

Matthew opened his eyes. He had been right. The sight that met him was the soft blue carpet and the chipped bottom edge of Gilbert’s desk. For the first time in months, Matthew felt genuinely _safe_ knowing where he was. Usually, Matthew was constantly on edge and half a second away from panic, especially right after waking up. It was a leftover state of mind from the last few years and it had become so natural and consistent that Matthew hardly ever registered it any more. And yet, right then, Matthew realized that he was _content._ Relaxed, even. It was strange – foreign, almost – because Matthew had been so afraid all the time for so long, but Matthew had never been so certain of anything as he was that he preferred this drowsy happiness over pretty much everything else.

A loud, drawn-out snore reverberated through the room. Every muscle in Matthew’s body tensed. _So much for contentment._ He shifted as quietly as he could manage to look around and found Gilbert passed out on another stack of bean bags a couple feet away. Gilbert was sprawled out haphazardly, his legs mostly on the floor and his cheek squashed against one of the bean bags. He was drooling little. Matthew had to smile at the sight. It was impossible for Gilbert to be at all threatening when he looked like that. With a start, Matthew realized that he had relaxed again. That was a bit strange, Matthew thought. In general, the idea that Matthew could calm down once he had returned to his normal, high-strung state of being was a nigh illogical one. It was a fairy tale that he knew was impossible, a miracle that seemed too good to be true and therefore probably was, so the fact that it _had_ happened and he _had_ returned to that happy, warm state of mind was strange, to the point of almost being disconcerting. It felt a little like someone had shaken him for too long and now everything was spinning and didn’t seem quite concrete. Not that Matthew minded, of course. He would never complain about feeling like he was safe or hoping quietly that he would be able to stay that way this time.

Matthew relaxed back into the bean bag and let his eyes fall shut again. Gilbert let out another long snore and Matthew pressed his smile into the bean bag he was lying on to hide it. It felt like if he didn’t hide that miniscule expression of happiness, the world would take it away from him. _You know you don’t deserve to be happy anymore,_ the green-eyed demon’s voice snarled in Matthew’s head, but it was just a memory, not a hallucination, so it was easy for Matthew to shake it off. _I_ do _deserve to be happy,_ Matthew reminded himself firmly. _That’s why I’m here in the first place. To learn how to keep myself happy this time. To work pas everything the demon did to me and learn how to feel safe again._

Of course, Matthew knew there was no way he was ever truly going to improve if he didn’t start taking steps to help Gilbert figure out what the best ways to help Matthew were. At this point, though, Anything Matthew told Gilbert would be more than Matthew had given Gilbert in the month and a half Matthew had been Gilbert’s client. Matthew bit his lip, surprised by how potent the wave of guilt that hit him was. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to be difficult, or that he didn’t want to get better. Quite the opposite, actually; Matthew wanted to be able to work properly with Gilbert and heal and learn how to move past everything that had happened to him almost desperately. Matthew wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He wanted to be able to go outside without looking constantly over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed because he hadn’t gotten permission to leave the house. He wanted to be able to make gingerbread houses in the winter time like he always wanted to, instead of foregoing that particular childhood tradition because he had been told it was a childish waste of money. He wanted to feel safe when he closed his eyes to sleep at night and feel equally safe when he opened them again the next morning. He wanted to be able to speak his mind when he felt like it without the memory of the green-eyed demon’s voice whispering _shut up; you’re annoying me with your obnoxious voice; just be quiet already; no one cares what you have to say_ in Matthew’s head. He wanted to be able to go days or weeks or months or years without thinking about the demon at all. He wanted it so badly it was almost a physical ache in his chest. He would have done anything in his power to get to that point.

But Matthew knew he would need to talk if he was going to even attempt to get there, and he wasn’t entirely sure that was something he was capable of anymore. He had bene voiceless for so long that Matthew could barely remember what his voice sounded like. There was no way to tell without trying if Matthew still had the willpower to force words past the psychological blockade in his throat or if the demon had taken that from him, too. It wouldn’t have surprised him if it had. Matthew had long since stopped trying to keep track of all the things the demon had stolen. There were too many to remember without writing out a list, and Matthew didn’t remember enough from the last few years to say for sure that he knew what had gone on when he was half-stunned by agony and terror and grief and self-hatred. It frightened him, this inability to remember so much of what had happened to him. What had been taken from him that he didn’t remember? How much of his trauma had he repressed instead of having to feel/ Who knew how much damage had been done to him that he didn’t even know about.

Matthew turned to look at Gilbert, wanting another direction to take his thoughts in. Gilbert was still snoring a way; a trickle of drool shone at the corner of his mouth. Matthew smiled to himself and pressed the expression into the back of the stuffed polar bear’s head. In that moment, Gilbert looked almost cute. Matthew had never thought to call a grown man _cute,_ but here he was. Then again, Gilbert had defied all of Matthew’s other preconceptions and turned them all inside out, so why not that one, too?

When he realized what he was thinking, Matthew pinched the still-bruised skin of his wrist harshly, wincing a little but refusing to let up the pressure. He wouldn’t let himself all down that particular rabbit hole again, especially not so soon. Matthew knew where thoughts like that about men like Gilbert got him. Last time, Matthew had ended up scarred for life in both the literal and the metaphorical senses. The absolute last thing Matthew wanted was a repeat of what had happened with the demon. Gilbert already had the eyes that would go so well on another shadow, and Matthew despised the idea that Gilbert might haunt him someday, too. One demon was already hellish in a way Matthew couldn’t begin to explain; he refused to even try to imagine what his life would be like with two. Gilbert didn’t seem like the abusive type, but neither had the green-eyed demon in the beginning Gilbert was sweet and kind, even when he and Matthew was alone, and those terrible eyes of his had never flashed predatorily like the demon’s had, but Matthew couldn’t help but be wary. Who was to say it wasn’t a long, elaborate, unusually well-performed act? Matthew would hope that people like the demon weren’t able to become therapists, but Matthew knew that was probably a naïve way of thinking.

Still, the demon had definitely lacked most, if not all empathy, and that would have to make a job as a therapist difficult to do convincingly. Even so, Matthew wasn’t about to go throwing himself at Gilbert. For one thing, Matthew wasn’t sure he was ready for a relationship so soon after the last disaster. For another, Matthew didn’t trust himself to recognized the difference between platonic affection and romantic affection anymore. Besides, wasn’t there some sort of law or something about therapists and their patients having relationships? Matthew was fairly sure there was. Whether there was or not, Matthew still refused to let himself think things like that. He didn’t even know if Gilbert was into guys, much less traumatized, anxious guys with massive trust issues. Matthew wasn’t _going_ to find out, either. It didn’t matter. There was no way Matthew would allow himself to fall for anyone. Not right now, anyway. It was too much, too soon, too fast.

Matthew shook himself like a dog shaking off water. Again, not a good train of thought, so he forced himself to find away to derail it. He cast around desperately for something else to think about, beginning to panic a little when he came up empty handed. Luckily, the anxiety didn’t have time to set in fully because Gilbert shifted and yawned, letting out a startled noise when he almost fell off the bean bags he was lying on. Matthew giggled a little to himself, hiding another smile in the plushy’s fur.

Gilbert made a disgruntled noise as he rolled onto the floor, his eyes opening slowly. As always, there was a flash of terror when Matthew caught sight of the colour of Gilbert’s eyes, but the fear dissipated quickly enough that it had virtually no effect on Matthew. He just pressed another tiny smile into the polar bear’s faux fur.

“You’re up,” Gilbert said when his gaze landed on Matthew, sounding surprised.

Matthew nodded, which earned him a bright smile that made him feel like his lungs were melting and turning over in his chest. He ignored the feeling and returned the smile shyly. Gilbert’s smile widened, and Matthew thought that he might go blind if Gilbert were to keep that up.

“Did you sleep okay?” Gilbert asked as he sat up and yawned. He rubbed at his eyes and that intrusive, misplaced word floated through Matthew’s thoughts again. _Cute._

Matthew nodded again in response. Gilbert gave Matthew another smile and yawned again, then flopped backward onto the bean bags again. Matthew giggled, the sound muffled against the plushy. Gilbert still heard it, though, because he looked up and gave Matthew yet another blinding grin. Matthew’s heart began to do a little tap dance against his ribcage. He tried to make it calm down. IT didn’t help any, but at least Matthew could console himself with the knowledge that he had tried, even if his effort was in vain.

“How are you feeling?” Gilbert asked gently, finally sitting up all the way.

Matthew considered for a moment. He wasn’t panicking, which meant he wasn’t doing _badly,_ per se. But he could still feel the threat of being overtaken by shadows looming over him, so he wasn’t doing as well as he potentially could have been, either. But all things considered, he was doing decently for having just woken up after a storm and an only barely-avoided panic attack. He settled for rocking his hand side to side in an _‘eh’_ sort of gesture. Gilbert nodded; hopefully he had gotten the message Matthew had intended to convey.

“Was it because of the storm?”

This, Matthew could answer without hesitation. He nodded. Gilbert hummed thoughtfully.

“Was the storm itself the issue or was it the screaming?”

Matthew put up two fingers. The storm hadn’t been an issue at all, but when the screaming had started, Matthew had been able to feel his control of his memories slipping. He had gone to find Gilbert as soon as memory began to bleed into his present and he had begun to think he was seeing shadows moving. The screaming had brought him back to that awful place, which meant that Matthew had spent the better part of an hour fighting off memories of the cold and the agony and the terror and the tears that had gone on in that tiny, dark hellhole even before he had left his room to seek out Gilbert’s help.

Gilbert nodded again and Matthew could almost literally see Gilbert switching from tired and half asleep into a level-headed, rational therapist. It was a little strange, but honestly, Matthew didn’t know what else he had expected from Gilbert. If nothing else, Gilbert was definitely a strange man. He wasn’t a bad kind of strange, though, so Matthew just let his lips quirk upward into a tiny little smile and moved on.

“Did the screaming trigger a panic attack?” Gilbert inquired. Mathew was glad he was so blunt; it made it easier for Matthew to accept his own issues when Gilbert was so willing to talk about them without sugarcoating or downplaying anything. Logically, Matthew knew it was just because of Gilbert’s job, but it was still a comfort.

Shaking his head, Matthew scrambled for the clipboard Gilbert had given him to write on. _Almost,_ Matthew scribbled, _but not quite._

Gilbert smiled. “Well, that’s good. I take it that there was no schizophrenic episode included, either, then?”

Matthew shook his head again .

“Did it trigger memories?”

Again, Matthew nodded. He’d seen red when the screaming had started, and it wasn’t because it had made him angry. All he’d been able to see was blood, mostly his own, running down his arms and getting in his eyes. Gilbert frowned sadly, his worry clear in his expression. As Gilbert ruffled through the papers on his desk, Matthew allowed his gaze to wander. It caught on a small corkboard hung on the wall just to the right of the door. A bunch of scraps of paper were tacked to it, all with drawings on them. The medium varied, but all were clearly done by children.

Gilbert must have glanced up and caught Matthew looking, because he smiled and said, “Those are from the kids up in the children’s ward. I go up and visit them every now and again; my albinism makes me a popular guest.”

Matthew returned the smile and turned back to the drawings. He had always loved children. As a matter of fact, before everything with the demon had happened, Mathew had been studying to get his degree and be a teacher. He wasn’t sure that was still possible anymore, but it had been a lovely dream while it lasted.

Some of Matthew’s wistfulness must have shown on his face for Gilbert to pick up on, because Gilbert smiled gently over at Matthew. “Do you want to go visit them some time?” Gilbert offered.

Matthew’s eyes went wide, then he nodded as enthusiastically as he could without giving himself a headache. Gilbert laughed lightly, nodded, and then jotted down a note on a stray post-it. “I’ll get permission later today, then,” he hummed.

With a shy, sweet smile, Matthew nodded. It amazed him that Gilbert would go so far to make Matthew happy. He threaded his fingers through the plushy’s soft fur and smiled again.

“If you like that thing so much, maybe you should name it.”

Matthew knew Gilbert was just joking. It wasn’t hard to tell. He knew he didn’t have to take the bait if he didn’t want to. But Matthew wanted to. He had wanted to find something easy and short to try to say, and this was nothing if not the perfect opportunity for that. For a moment, Matthew struggled with himself, numerous sentences dying in his throat. _He doesn’t want to hear you,_ hissed the memory of the green-eyed demon in Matthew’s head. _Yes, he does,_ Mathew snarled in response.

“Kumajiro.”

He only managed one word, but it was enough. Gilbert straightened and stared at Matthew, eyes wide and incredulous.

“What?”

The words came easier to Matthew this time. “Kumajiro. Or Kuma. F-for a name.”

The smile Gilbert gave Matthew could have powered the entire hospital for a month. Matthew tucked his own smile into the top of the polar bear’s head and thought that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so. It's been almost six months since I updated this, and I'm really sorry it took me this long; there's just been a lot of shit going on. I hit some pretty heavy-duty writer's bock right before a huge depressive episode courtesy of summer break being absolute hell, so my motivation was absolutely shot for the last four and a half months, I graduated and then moved all the way across the country for uni, and classes started yesterday. It may take a little while for me to return to weekly Monday updates now that school is back in session, but I'll do my best! Thank you guys so much for your patience. :)

It had been almost a week since Matthew had finally spoken, and Gilbert was still beyond ecstatic. It was still visibly difficult for Matthew to speak, and he couldn’t manage more than a couple sentences at a time, but that was okay. The fact that he could speak at _all_ was practically a miracle all on its own. It was certainly progress, if nothing else, and Gilbert thought it was something to be celebrated. The fact that Matthew had finally spoken again was a humongous step in the right direction. Gilbert didn’t think it was possible for him to be any more proud of Matthew. Admittedly, Matthew still had a severe stutter and it was obviously difficult for him to even start speaking, but that was okay. Gilbert could call in a speech therapist if absolutely necessary, but he didn’t think it would come to that. If Matthew had managed to get past that first psychological barrier that prevented him from speaking entirely, Gilbert had complete confidence that Matthew would also be able to get past the remnants of said barrier. Gilbert had no doubt that Matthew would be speaking unimpeded in no time at all. Sure, he might need a little help along the way, but wasn’t that what Gilbert was there for?

Of course, Gilbert knew he might not be morally allowed to be Matthew’s therapist for too much longer. Gilbert always got attached to his clients to some extent – it was impossible _not_ to, when they were always so vulnerable in front of him and Gilbert wasn’t an unempathetic douchewaffle – but he’d begun to notice that he was more attached to Matthew than most clients. It was causing to some serious inner turmoil and self-reflection on Gilbert’s part. On one hand, Gilbert had noticed that he had begun to refer to Matthew as ‘Birdie’ in his head. That alone was far different from how Gilbert thought of mist of his clients; he had never given them cutesy nicknames before. Not to mention the fact that the nickname was usually sued in the context of ‘ _my_ Birdie’ or something similar, and the strange protectiveness Gilbert felt for Matthew was a bit disconcerting. On the other hand, there was a very clear set of rules about conflict of interest, and Gilbert was treading a very thin line as it was. He was beginning to consider Matthew as more of a find than a client, and Gilbert was vaguely concerned that these already borderline-unprofessional emotions would grow into something considerably more dangerous. He knew it wasn’t impossible; Gilbert had always been one to get crushes quickly. But even thinking about holding romantic feelings for Matthew felt indescribably _wrong_ at the most basic of levels to Filbert. Matthew, along with pretty much every other client Gilbert ever had, was severely traumatized and almost definitely not psychologically capable of handling even the healthiest of relationships. Gilbert didn’t want to take advantage of the tentative trust Matthew was extending to Gilbert, especially not in a way like that. He didn’t want to be another bad memory for Matthew. Besides, there was transference to take into account, too. Gilbert had had several clients to whom he’d had to explain transference to when they declared their love for him at the end of their stay in the hospital. If Matthew ended up experiencing transference and Gilbert was crushing on Matthew at the same time, there was a very concerning chance of too many potentially negative outcomes for Gilbert to be comfortable thinking about.

Still, Gilbert couldn’t ignore his emotions well enough to be proud of Matthew’s progress. Matthew had even managed to verbally explain that the reason he had been so interested by the drawings pinned to Gilbert’s corkboard was because Matthew had wanted to be a teacher before… something. He had cut himself off and looked away then, biting his lip and looking almost ashamed by his inability to finish the sentence. Gilbert had smiled, pushed away the urge to push Matthew for further details, and gently redirected the conversation to a place Matthew was more comfortable with. Gilbert had, however, managed to convince the higher-ups of the hospital to let him take Matthew up to the children’s ward for a couple hours. Gilbert had even managed to do it without embellishing anything or overstating Matthew’s progress; he truly did believe it would be beneficial for Matthew. Part of the goal for inpatient therapy was always to reintegrate the clients into society, and that included reintroducing to some of their hobbies and helping them rekindle and take steps to achieve goals and aspirations their trauma may have taken from them. In Matthew’s case, Gilbert was hoping that this little field trip would serve that purpose. Also, if being around children made Matthew happy, who was Gilbert to deny him that? The only concern that Augustus, the owner of the hospital, had was that the presence of a stranger would send some of the children into flashbacks or trigger panic attacks. While that was a valid concern, Gilbert didn’t think it was likely. If anything, the kids had a higher chance of sending Matthew into a panic attack than the other way around. Even so, Gilbert promised to make sure Matthew was careful with how he acted around the kids.

When Gilbert had told Matthew that they had permission to visit the children’s ward, Matthew had lit up like a Christmas tree. The way his eyes had sparkled had made Gilbert want to kiss him. Gilbert had promptly mentally slapped himself upside the head and settled for smiling at Matthew instead.

Matthew had been ecstatic then, but he just looked anxious now that they were in the elevator, headed up to the fourth floor. He was holding that stuffed polar bear – Gilbert could never remember what Matthew had named it – so tightly that Gilbert was worried the poor thing’s head would pop off at any second now.

“Are you okay?” Gilbert asked, resisting the urge to set a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. He still didn’t much like to be touch, and Gilbert wasn’t going to disrespect that. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know. It’s fine if you’ve changed your mind or want to wait until a different day.”

Matthew shook his head. He took a couple seconds to collect his thoughts and force himself to speak, like he always did. “No, I w-want to. Just… nervous.”

Gilbert smiled lightly and nodded. Matthew’s stutter was improving, Gilbert noticed with a burst of pride.

“That’s understandable. If you want to leave at any point, just come let me know, all right? Don’t force yourself to stay any longer than you’re comfortable with.”

Matthew nodded and returned Gilbert’s smile shyly. That tiny, sweet expression had become a far more common occurrence recently, and Gilbert couldn’t have been happier about it. Matthew had relaxed his grip on his plushy, too, so Gilbert wasn’t worried about trying to figure out how to stitch the poor thing back together if a seam popped.

The elevator dinged and shuddered to a stop. Matthew stepped out first, visible eager to get out of the cramped space. Gilbert made a mental note to take the stairs with Matthew from then on and followed. The instant Matthew and Gilbert stepped into the children’s playroom, there were a dozen kids mobbing their legs; a couple of the older kids glanced up from their books or board games or conversations and then looked away tiredly. Gilbert only recognized a couple faces, much to his relief. It was always heartbreaking to see a room full of children he knew here, especially when it came to those who had had to return to the hospital on multiple occasions. There were only three kids Gilbert had seen before in the room today. There was Cindy, the little girl who refused to wear her hair in any style other than a side ponytail for one reason or another; Peter Kirkland, Arthur’s nephew; and Raivis Galante, the Latvian boy who had visited Peter daily every time he was readmitted. Gilbert frowned worriedly at the sight of Peter. The poor kid had been in and out of the hospital for suicide attempt after suicide attempt since his parents had been killed, and the fact that he was here again was beyond concerning. He’d spent his last three birthdays in the hospital, and he was only thirteen. The other kids quickly lost interest in Gilbert and turned their big does eyes to Matthew, so Gilbert approached Peter and crouched down beside the boy. Peter averted his eyes and scuffed his toes against the carpet.

“I thought you said I wasn’t gonna see you here again,” Gilbert said gently. “You promised you weren’t going to hurt yourself again, kiddo.”

Peter’s lower lip began to tremble, and Raivis took Peter’s hand tentatively. “I know, Peter mumbled, sniffling a little. “But it’s – it’s so hard, Gil.”

Gilbert smiled gently and squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard, Peter. And I know you can do it, too. You’re getting there, buddy; it’s okay if you need a little bit more help.”

Peter smiled wetly and squeezed Raivis’ hand. “That’s why I have Raivis and you and Mr. Tino and Uncle Artie! Right?”

With a grin, Gilbert ruffled Peter’s hair. “Yeah, exactly.”

Peter bounced off with Raivis, chattering animatedly as if he hadn’t been on the verge of tears less than five minutes ago. Gilbert laughed and stood, glancing around the room to find Matthew. He was standing by the door still, talking to Tino Väinämöinen, the nurse in charge of the children’s ward. Well, Tino was more talking _at_ Matthew than _with_ him, but Matthew didn’t look uncomfortable or anxious, so Gilbert saw no need to intervene. In fact, Matthew looked as calm and content as Gilbert had ever seen him, even though Cindy was tugging at his sleeve and the vaguely terrifying blond man standing behind Tino was glowering at Matthew and four other kids were toddling around his legs and clutching at his pants to keep from falling over. It was actually pretty impressive, how calm Matthew was despite the hundred different ways his attention was being pulled. It was easily to imagine Matthew as a teacher. It was a sweet mental image. Gilbert hoped that someday Matthew would be able to achieve that dream.

Gilbert sat himself in one of the too-small plastic chairs in one corner of the room and let himself relax. He allowed his mind to wander, though he made sure to keep a careful eye on Matthew to make sure he wasn’t getting uncomfortable or overwhelmed.

Predictably, Gilbert’s thoughts turned to Francis. After Arthur’s little explosion, Gilbert had had a long conversation with Francis about why he was refusing to even try to trust Arthur. It had taken nearly two hours of gentle cajoling and prying, but eventually Gilbert had gotten an answer, and he hadn’t been able to keep himself from leaning over and hugging Francis when he did give Gilbert an explanation. In the end, they had come to a compromise. Francis would start making an actual effort to cooperate with Arthur when it came to his treatment, and Gilbert would get Arthur to be a little gentler when it came to Francis. So far, it seemed like this agreement had proved satisfactory – Arthur hadn't handed Francis off to another therapist yet, anyway – but Gilbert was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. There had been periods like this before, when Francis had put in an extra amount of effort and had started to improve and work past everything, but they had always ended up in a particularly bad relapse and tears on everyone’s part. Gilbert couldn’t help but worry that it would be the same this time as it always had been before. He knew he was underestimating both Francis and Arthur by entertaining that particular concern, but past events had indicated that his fear was entirely valid.

And, of course, to top it all off, Antonio was starting to worry Gilbert, too. Antonio had been stressing considerably more than normal about his newest client, Feliciano’s older brother Lovino. Apparently, Lovino was as stubborn as Francis and twice as closed off, which was saying something. However, this made it incredibly difficult for Antonio to do his job. Lovino had been an inpatient for almost six months now, and Antonio had barely gotten anything out of him at all. Even after the storm, Lovino had remained closed off and resistant to all of Antonio’s attempts to help. Gilbert couldn’t help but resent Lovino a little. It had been his screaming that had very nearly caused Matthew to have a panic attack, and Lovino was the cause for the worryingly dark bags under Antonio’s eyes, and he didn’t even have the decency to _try._ Still, if there was anyone who could get through to someone who was as much of a stubborn little shit as Lovino Vargas, it was Antonio. There was a reason Antonio specialized in treating mood disorders like depression. Antonio was endlessly patient and sweet in a way that many people simply weren’t, and he had decided to use that to help other people, being the ever-selfless knight in shining armor he always had been.

Gilbert sighed and rested his cheek in his palm. He adored his friends, he really did, but they could stress him out like nothing else. Not that Gilbert really minded. He would much rather be vented to than have his friend bottle everything up and then inevitably implode. High school had taught all three of them that well enough, between Francis’ eating disorder and Antonio’s self-harm problems and Gilbert’s anxiety. They were all much more open about their emotions and problems now, even Francis, although that wasn’t saying much. Still, it was always better to vent, so Gilbert would happily listen and offer support when his friends needed to do so. That didn’t mean he didn’t worry about them, though, and that certainly didn’t mean Gilbert didn’t share their stress. But he had learned a long time ago that there would be ups and downs and days where he was tired and days where he and Francis and Antonio wanted nothing to do with each other, but in the end, they would work through and move past any bullshit obstacles live threw at them together. It was one of the many joys of having been friends for so long. If they had suffered through puberty together, they could handle adulthood easily.

With a shake of his head, Gilbert redirected his train of thought before it took him too far down memory lane. Some things were better left forgotten, and a solid seventy percent of his high school years fell into that category. Instead of thinking about the mess that he, Antonio, and Francis had been once upon a time, Gilbert focused back in on Matthew. He was smiling and nodding enthusiastically along with something Cindy was telling him that involved lots of hand flailing and bouncing on her part. Gilbert couldn’t help but smile to himself. Seeing Matthew so happy, all his anxious edges softened and dulled, seemed like something borderline miraculous. It was amazing, the difference between Matthew when he had arrived and Matthew now, Gilbert thought contentedly. Sometimes, progress felt slow in Gilbert’s line of work, but when he looked at the long-term, it was amazing what a few months of safety and support could do for a person and their mental state.

Matthew came to sit by Gilbert after another twenty minutes or so, looking sheepish but otherwise ecstatic.

“S-sorry,” Matthew murmured as he folded his long limbs into the tiny plastic chair meant for fourth or fifth grade kids. “I didn’t m-mean to a-abandon you like that-t.”

Gilbert laughed and waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Birdie. The point of this was to make you happy, and from where I’m standing, it seems like it worked to me.”

He didn’t even realize that his mental nickname had slipped out until he caught sight of Matthew’s wide-eyed, shocked expression. Gilbert’s cheeks began to heat and he let out a nervous little laugh. _Oh, hell._

“B-Birdie?” Matthew breathed.

Gilbert laughed again, the sound high pitched and unnatural, and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Er, yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to say that. It just sort of… slipped out.”

It was a weak excuse, and Gilbert knew it, but he didn’t have any better ones to give. Luckily, Matthew didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Matthew was smiling, though the expression was half-hidden by the head of his stuffed polar bear.

“I like it,” Matthew mumbled after a moment.

Gilbert blinked, thoroughly surprised, then grinned. “Really?”

Matthew nodded. Gilbert’s smile widened.

“Well, in that case – are you ready to go, Birdie?

Matthew nodded again and they both stood, matching shy smiles on their faces.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully within the next month or so, I'll be back to weekly updates!! That's a very tentative promise, but I'll do my best. :)

After a visit to the children’s ward, things got progressively better for Matthew. He had managed to get his stutter relatively under control, and he could even manage a full five or six sentences now before his voice started to falter. Gilbert was almost as ecstatic about Matthew’s progress as Matthew himself was.

Another huge step forward Matthew had taken was with his discomfort with physical contact. He and Gilbert had had a long conversation about Matthew’s aversion to touch. Gilbert had explained that it was more likely a trigger than a true phobia, but that exposure therapy, a method commonly used to treat phobias, still might be the best way for Matthew to readjust to the idea of casual physical contact. Warily, Matthew had agreed. He wanted to get past this, no matter how daunting the thought was. Luckily, Gilbert had agreed to take the exposure therapy slow, and to stop if it didn’t seem to be working or if Matthew got too uncomfortable. After getting Matthew’s permission to do so, Gilbert had asked Alfred to come in and help. Apparently, it would be easier on Matthew if he acclimated himself to being touched by people he knew and trusted, at least to begin with. Matthew didn’t quite understand why Gilbert had brought Alfred into it – Matthew trusted Gilbert just as much as Alfred – but agreed anyway. Gilbert was the therapist and he knew what he was doing. At least, Matthew hoped Gilbert knew what he was doing, because Matthew sure didn’t.

The exposure therapy had worked, though, at least thus far. Matthew still wasn’t entirely okay with prolonged physical contact, but he could manage brief hugs if he knew they were coming, and if he bumped into someone or brushed shoulders with a stranger in a crowd it wouldn’t push him to the edge of a panic attack anymore. For once, Matthew was actually proud of himself. It helped that Gilbert was so vocally proud of Matthew, too. His self-esteem had never been very high to begin with, and he’d always had a hard time taking pride in himself and his accomplishments. But when Gilbert grinned so wide it looked painful every time Matthew didn’t flinch when Alfred went to touch his shoulder or hand, Matthew couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself, too.

As it turned out, Matthew’s stay at the hospital was helping with issues he’d had long before he’d met the demon. For example: his social anxiety and resulting social ineptitude. Matthew usually spent most of his time in his room, but a couple weeks ago, he had gotten a roommate. Said roommate was a blond Swiss man named Vash. He was a bit intimidating and made Matthew nervous, but it was kind of hard to be scared of someone who cried himself to sleep on a nightly basis. Still, just because Matthew wasn’t terrified didn’t mean he was comfortable spending extended periods of time alone in a small room with a virtual stranger, so recently Matthew had been found himself spending more and more time in the so-called recreation room. It wasn’t really much of a ‘recreation room,’ since it was really just a couple of couches and a pile of board games in the corner, but at least the couches were comfortable. It wasn’t quite as quiet as Matthew would have liked, but he was getting better at handling loud places. Not to mention that most of the people who frequented the rec room were nice, if a little odd. The only one who made Matthew uncomfortable beyond the usual _I-don’t-know-this-person_ anxiety was Ivan, one of Alfred’s patients, but that was only because Ivan was almost a foot taller than and twice as bulky as Matthew. Otherwise, Ivan was a perfect gentleman; it was really only physically that he was at all intimidating. That was where Matthew had met Lovino, too. Lovino was a cranky Italian man with bags under his eyes bigger than Vash’s and more self-hatred in one tiny body than Matthew had thought possible. They had ended up striking up a conversation when Lovino had sat down in front of Matthew’s quite game of solitaire, declared that single-player card games were pathetic, and then proceeded to deal out a hand of war. After a few rounds, Matthew had learned that despite Lovino’s angry personality and fondness for creative swearing, Lovino was just as tired and anxious and lonely and frightened here as Matthew was. From then, he and Lovino had south each other out every time they were both in the rec room. Lovino hadn’t said anything about why he had been committed, and neither had Matthew, but he noticed that they both made an effort to be careful of potential triggers. It made Matthew almost unreasonably happy to know that he had a friend here that wasn’t his therapist or his brother. They had even exchanged contact information – emails, because Matthew didn’t have a phone anymore – so they could stay in touch after they were released. It had made Matthew wonder about the friends he’d had before encountering the green-eyed demon. He hadn’t talked to any of them in years, since even before he had been locked up. At the time, he’d thought they’d fallen out of contact because they hated him. Now he realized that they were just another thing the demon had taken from him.

At least Matthew didn’t have to deal with his demon near as often anymore. Gilbert had said that Matthew’s schizophrenia was incredibly mild in relation to most cases, which had made Matthew wonder apprehensively how incredibly hellish _severe_ schizophrenia was. But the medication Gilbert had prescribed seemed to be working; the shadows didn’t start reaching for Matthew whenever he was on the verge of a panic attack anymore, anyway. Gilbert said that Matthew had gotten lucky, in that respect, because apparently medications only rarely were an effective method of treatment for schizophrenia. Matthew supposed he was grateful. It was true that the pills did help with some of the thoughts that were in the demon’s voice, and Matthew didn’t feel like a zombie like some of the other patients said they did because of their meds. In fact, if anything, Matthew felt more alert and awake than he had in years. And yet, there was still a tiny little both of shame and anxiety that thrilled through him every time Feliciano came in with that little paper cup of meds. It was embarrassing, for some reason that he just couldn’t understand. The medication was necessary, and he knew that it wasn’t doing anything but helping him. And, yet, he kept thinking he was going to be mocked or ostracized or something equally ridiculous. Matthew was not naïve. He knew perfectly well what this diagnosis could potentially mean once he got back out into the real world. He was aware of the stigma and biases and negative connotations that came with the schizophrenic label. But Matthew also knew that here, right now, there was no risk of judgment or discrimination, so he kind of wanted to slap himself upside the head. He didn’t, but the thought as there.  

Matthew stood when he heard the door open and Vash walked in, looking exhausted. He must have just had an appointment with his psychiatrist. Matthew felt bad for Vash, honestly. His therapist was the stuffy Austrian guy Matthew had been overlooked by on his first day. Every session left Vash looking frustrated and drained and thoroughly exhausted. Matthew always made a point to vacate the room and give Vash his space after his meetings with Roderich. Vash never said anything to indicate that he noticed, but he also always made an effort to smile at Matthew the next time they were in the same room, so Matthew knew Vash appreciated the hour or two or recovery Matthew gave him. It wasn’t like Matthew minded. A few hours listening to Lovino swear over yet another lost game of cards or chess were a few hours well-spent, in Matthew’s opinion.

That wasn’t what he found when Matthew reached the recreation room today, though. Lovino wasn’t on the couch grumbling over a game of solitaire like he usually was. Instead, he was curled in the corner with his knees pulled to his chest and his face buried in his arms. Matthew was immediately worried. He had noticed the occasional redness of Lovino’s eyes or the way Lovino’s hands shook a little when he was having a bad day, but usually, Lovino outright refused to openly express any emotion except anger or, on rarer occasions, happiness. This sort of blatant, public display of despair just wasn’t like Lovino, and it concerned Matthew. He knelt down beside Lovino, wincing a little at the tiny hitch in Lovino’s breath the motion caused.

“Are you okay” Matthew asked softly.

Lovino shook his head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Lovino made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh, thought it was a bit closer to the former. “What is there to talk about?” he choked out. “I’m just a fuck-up. Same shit, different goddamn day.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true” Matthew murmured, crossing his legs and settling down beside  Lovino. “You aren’t a fuck-up, Lovino.”

“What do you know?” Lovino’s voice was more resigned than angry.

“I know what you aren’t a fuck up,” Matthew repeatedly calmly.

Lovino laughed and shook his hair a little, moving one hand from where it was clenched tightly in his hair to wipe at his eyes. Matthew say with Lovino in silence for a moment, not sure what to do. Usually, Matthew thought that this would be the sort of situation that called for a hug, but he wasn’t entirely sure Lovino would be comfortable with that. Honestly, Matthew wasn’t entirely sure he himself was comfortable with that, either. So Matthew just settled for sitting there and hoping his presence was at least something of a comfort to Lovino.

Clearly, it helped at least a little, because Lovino stopped crying eventually. After another few minutes, Lovino stood and made his way silently out of the room, his head bowed to hide the still-fresh tear tracks glittering on his cheeks. Matthew watched him go worriedly, but didn’t try to stop Lovino. Hopefully he would be okay. Matthew just didn’t know what else he could do to help.

Matthew loitered around the rec room for another hour, then decided to go back to his room. He could use a nap before going to lunch.

However, Matthew’s mind ended up wandering so far that he forgot to pay attention to where he was going and ended up lost. Matthew just sighed. This had happened a lot during the first few weeks Matthew had spent in the hospital. The building was an absolute maze, and it was painfully easy to get lost if you weren’t paying enough attention. Matthew knew the way from his room to Gilbert’s office and back well enough by now that it wasn’t an issue if Matthew spaced out a little while he was walking, but the same couldn’t be said for the way to and from the recreation room, much to Matthew’s dismay.

Matthew ended up wandering the halls for a while longer, already so helplessly turned around that he wasn’t even  sure what floor he was on anymore. It had been a while since he had gotten this lost. It was almost funny. Of course, it would help if all the halls didn’t look exactly the same, or if there was at least some sort of identification on the doors. But _no,_ whoever had designed this place just _had_ to make it a maze. Because that was absolutely practical.

The next room Matthew recognized was the lobby, much to his surprise. He was amazed he had gotten this far without running into someone who could have redirected him toward his room. It was okay, though; he knew is way back to his  room rom here. It was impossible to get anywhere in the hospital without going through the lobby, which meant Matthew had learned early on how to find his way to his room from here.

Out of curiosity, Matthew scanned the room, vaguely relieved to find that it was mostly empty. The same receptionist who had been there when he was first admitted — Matthew had since learned that her name was Katyusha and that she was Ivan’s older sister — was talking to a tall, wiry man who was built like a scarecrow at the desk.

For a second, Matthew froze, then forced himself to relax. It wasn’t the demon. It couldn’t be the demon. After all, there was no way it could find Matthew here. It was nowhere near him. It had been taken to…

To a psychiatric hospital. Almost three months ago. With a jolt, Matthew realized that its trial was set for about a week from then, a shiver running down his spine. That meant that the demon would have to be getting out right about then to make sure it could appear in court. Matthew didn’t have that responsibility; his testimony wasn’t required because there had been so much physical evidence, but still. If the demon was about to get out, that meant…

The world seemed to narrow to Matthew and the man. The demon. Matthew recognized it with terrifying clarity once he had lifted the veil of denial from my thoughts. The slim shoulders, the pale skin, the tangled blond hair, the almost disproportionately long limbs that Matthew knew were so much stronger than his own. Katyusha said something to the man and the demon laughed, the sound sending sharp shards of ice through Matthew’s veins in place of blood.

_No. No. No, no, no. Not him. Not now. Please. Not now._

Matthew thought he must have made some sort of noise, or maybe the demon just had some sort of sixth sense when it came to Matthew’s presence, because it turned, those bright, cruelly intelligent eyes landing on Matthew with a predatory gleam. A dark grin curled the demon’s lips and Matthew broke under that awful gaze.

Something inside him snapped and he bolted. It was a purely instinctual reaction, based solely on terror and the knowledge that if Matthew stayed where he was, he would almost certainly be put back in that basement. He ran blindly, tears and panic obscuring his vision. Matthew could hear the demon behind him, catching up, could hear its footsteps and its laughter. Its fingers brushed Matthew’s shoulder and he ran faster. For once, Matthew hoped that this was all an illusion or a hallucination, so long as it wasn’t _real._ So long as the demon wasn’t really here. Soon, though, coherent thought was merely a memory. Matthew could hear the clink of knives; his wrists and ankles were heavy with chains. He stumbled and fell, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that he had dropped the polar bear plushy in the process. He didn’t have it in himself to care.

Matthew’s breathing came in sharp, ragged gasps, burning in his throat. He stumbled into a random room and collapsed into one of the beds, only able to hope that it was the one he shared with Vash. He squeezed his eyes shut, barely registering the tears that ran down his cheeks. But blocking out reality only made the memories flashing behind Matthew’s eyelids more vivid. Knives and grins and so many shadows and he was drowning, drowning in blood, and there was so much red and it was everywhere and he couldn’t breathe—

He screamed, the phantom pain of blades and flames and chains tearing across his skin. That cold, horrible laughter that had haunted Matthew’s reality for so long echoed in his head and he clapped his hands tightly over his ears, trying to claw the noise, the memories, the images, out of his mind. Matthew could feel blood, but whether or not it was real was up for debate. Of course, he wasn’t exactly able to debate anything at the moment. He was too busy fighting off the demons that lurked in the shadowy corners of his mind. At least they hadn’t seeped out into the visible world, yet.

Dully, Matthew heard a shout and a door slam, but he was too busy with his own demons to do anything but scream. His throat was raw and sore and his head was throbbing but he couldn’t stop screaming. If he did, no one would hear him. It was entirely possible that no one would hear him _anyway,_ but he had to at least try to get away from the demon.

Darkness was the only thing Matthew could see, occasionally punctuated by a flash of cold metal or a spray of red that came from beneath his skin. The pain was sharp and constant, fingers and blades and chains digging into his flesh and adding to the growing pool of red that he was beginning to drown in again. Reality wasn’t a thing anymore, only his hell and the demon and Matthew’s blood and the hissing, radio static laughter of the shadows. Red and black and silver and pain colored his senses, and he was trapped again in that tiny room that had so quickly become an endless hell. This time, there was no Alfred to save him. No kind hospital nurses to make sure he didn’t slip permanently into his memories of hell. No Gilbert to make him see that loud and boisterous and opinionated and confident didn’t necessarily mean dangerous or cruel.

Slowly, slowly, Matthew’s voice died out again, and he was reduced to sobs, not knowing if the slick warmth running down his cheeks was blood or tears or some combination of the two. There was a vague voice, but it was full of static and faded in and out irregularly, so it was impossible to hear anything coherent in it. Matthew found himself clutching something soft and squeezed it close, trying to anchor himself to the tatters that were left of his sanity just a bit more firmly.

The last thing Matthew saw before the darkness swallowed him again was one last flash of bright red.


End file.
